Death of a salesman

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DIRECTED BY ULU GROSBMD

THE THEATRE RECORDING SOCIETY A CAEDMON PRODUCTION

THE COMPLETE PLAY A 3 RECORD ALBUM

33'/. RPM LONGPLAYING TRS310

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TRS 310 CQ\-J I

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

By Arthur Miller

Stalin was Premier, Attlee Prime Minister, Truman President, the national budget
was forty billion dollars, Rita Hayworth married Aly Khan, America detected the first
Russian atomic explosion, Axis Sally and Tokyo Rose were convicted of treason and the
Long Island Railroad declared itself bankrupt. It was the hundredth anniversary of
Chopin’s death, and The Iceman Cometh , The Madwoman of Chaillot and South Pacific
opened. It was 1949, the year Death of a Salesman hit Broadway.

The impact of the play left no theatregoer unshattered. Whether he saw in the mirror
a picture of his failure as father, son, husband or breadwinner, the American saw himself
and wept for himself. Willy Loman was the American Everyman, and Miller’s knowledge
of him, of his thoughts and acts, of his every nuance of speech, was so precise that
no one’ could fail to recognize him. Perhaps the most perceptive comment of all was
made by the man who left the theatre muttering, I always knew that New England
territory was no damned good.’’ If Wdlly Loman had been asked the meaning of his
life, that would have been his story.

Seventeen years later, Death of a Salesman required no new insights or bringing up-to-
date. Producing it for record turned out, however, to be as time-consuming as mounting
a fresh production for the stage, and in many ways more difficult. The transitions in
time, from the tangible present to Willy’s hallucinations, had to be made crystal clear
without anything as false as an echo chamber; the actors themselves, performing parts
that are the very breath of reality, had tp achieve that reality in a room heaped high with
electrical cables; and the voices had to be absolutely, in an instant recognizably right.

Arthur Miller took a strong personal hand in this production, from his opening de¬
mand that we use Lee J. Cobb and Mildred Dunnock to bring alive again the parts they had
created (as if we dreamed of using anyone else!), his choice of Ulu Grosbard as director,
the audition of over thirty actors for just one role, rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal, and finally
recording an introduction.

It is certain that no play has ever been recorded like this. Sets were built in the re¬
cording studio following the theatrical plans, so that the actors never stood reading in
front of a bank of microphones but moved around in the kitchen or the bedroom or the
office. Caedmon spent $3.75 for a dozen long-stemmed roses which Happy proffers to his
mother after he and Biff have deserted Willy at the chophouse; she throws them
angrily away: neither emotional nor acoustical verisimilitude could have been achieved
with an ordinary bunch of Sweethearts.

A platoon of engineers aged a decade balancing the 14 microphones, but the result
is surely a marvel of Method recording.

THE CAST

WILLY LOMAN

LINDA

BIFF

HAPPY

BERNARD

THE WOMAN

CHARLEY

UNCLE BEN

HOWARD WAGNER

JENNY

STANLEY

MISS FORSYTHE

LETTA

Lee J. Cobb
Mildred Dunnock
Michael Tolan
Gene Williams
Dustin Hoffman
Camila Ashland
Ralph Bell
Royal Beal
George Coe
Francine Beers
Tom Pedi
Ann Wedgeworth
Joyce Aaron

Directed by Ulu Grosbard

Assistant to Mr. Grosbard: Curt Dempster

Music by Alex North

Cover design by Leo and Diane Dillon

.rthur Miller looks on as Ulu Grosbard rehearses with (from left to right) Gene Williams, Michael Tolan, Lee J. Cobb, and

This recording of Death of a Salesman has been pro¬
duced for The Theatre Recording Society by Caedmon
Records, Inc. Performance and reproduction rights avail¬
able from Caedmon Records, Inc., 461 Eighth Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10001.

NOTE: Be sure that stereophonic recordings are not
played on monaural equipment. Monaural recordings,
however, can be played to advantage on stereophonic
equipment. If the cover of this album is not marked
STEREO, these records are monaural.

Made in U.S.A.

THE CAST

WILLY LOMAN

LINDA

BIFF

HAPPY

BERNARD

THE WOMAN

CHARLEY

UNCLE BEN

HOWARD WAGNER

JENNY

STANLEY

MISS FORSYTHE

LETTA

Lee J. Cobb
Mildred Dunnock
Michael Tolan
Gene Williams
Dustin Hoffman
Camila Ashland
Ralph Bell
Royal Beal
George Coe
Francine Beers
Tom Pedi
Ann Wedgeworth
Joyce Aaron

Directed by Ulu Grosbard

Assistant to Mr. Grosbard: Curt Dempster

Music by Alex North

Photographs of this production by Inge Morath/Magnum

Photographs of original cast by Graphic House

Drawings of original stage sets and lighting by Jo Mielziner

Photographs of Mielziner drawings by Peter A. Juley and Sc

Portfolio designed by Crista Grauer

Portfolio cover and drawings by Leo and Diane Dillon

Copyright © 1966 Caedmon Records, Inc.

LEFT HAND PAGE: The original production of Death of a
Salesman with Lee J. Cobb as VCilly, Mildred Dunnock as Linda,
Arthur Kennedy as Biff, and Cameron Mitchell as Happy.

RIGHT HAND PAGE: The current production, Arthur Miller
looks on as Ulu Grosbard rehearses with (from left to right) Gene
Williams, Michael Tolan, Lee J. Cobb, and Dustin Hoffman.

Printed in U.S.A.

••

ARTHUR MILLER: An Introduction to the Play

It is necessary, if one is to reflect reality, not only to depict why a man does
what he does, or why he nearly didn’t do it, but why he cannot simply walk away
and say to hell with it. To ask this last question of a play is a cruel thing, for
evasion is probably the most developed technique most men have, and in truth
there is an extraordinarily small number of conflicts which we must, at any cost,
live out to their conclusions. To ask this question is immediately to impose on
oneself not, perhaps, a style of writing but at least a kind of dramatic construction.
For I understand the symbolic meaning of a character and his career to consist
of the kind of commitment he makes to life or refuses to make, the kind of chal¬
lenge he accepts and the kind he can pass by. I take it that if one could know
enough about a human being one could discover some conflict, some value, some
challenge, however minor or major, which he cannot find it in himself to walk away
from or turn his back on. The structure of these plays, in this respect, is to the
end that such a conflict be discovered and clarified. Idea, in these plays, is the
generalized meaning of that discovery applied to men other than the hero. Time,
characterizations, and other elements are treated differently from play to play, but
all to the end that that moment of commitment be brought forth, that moment when,
in my eyes, a man differentiates himself from every other man, that moment when
out of a sky full of stars he fixes on one star. I take it, as well, that the less capable
a man is of walking away from the central conflict of the play, the closer he ap¬
proaches a tragic existence. In turn, this implies that the closer a man approaches
tragedy the more intense is his concentration of emotion upon the fixed point of
his commitment, which is to say the closer he approaches what in life we call fanati¬
cism. From this flows the necessity for scenes of high and open emotion, and plays
constructed toward climax rather than the evocation of a mood alone or of bizarre
spectacle.

From such considerations it ought to be clear that the common tokens of realism
and non-realism are in themselves not acceptable as criteria. That a play is written
prosaically does not make it a realistic play, and that the speech is heightened and
intensified by imagery does not set it to one side of realism necessarily. The under¬
lying poem of a play I take to be the organic necessity of its parts. I find in the
arbitrary not poetry but indulgence. (The novel is another matter entirely.) A very
great play can be mimed and still issue forth its essential actions and their rudi¬
ments of symbolic meaning; the word, in drama, is the transformation into speech
of what is happening, and the fiat for intense language is intensity of happening.
We have had more than one extraordinary dramatist who was a cripple as a writer,
and this is lamentable but not ruinous. Which is to say that I prize the poetic above
all else in the theater, and because I do I insist that the poem truly be three. . . .

The first image that occurred to me which was to result in Death of a Salesman
was of an enormous face the height of the proscenium arch which would appear
and then open up, and we would see the inside of a man’s head. In fact, The Inside
of His Head was the first title. It was conceived half in laughter, for the inside
of his head was a mass of contradictions. The image was in direct opposition to the
method of All My Sons — a method one might call linear or eventual in that one
fact or incident creates the necessity for the next. The Salesman image was from
the beginning absorbed with the concept that nothing in life comes "next” but
that everything exists together and at the same time within us; that there is no
past to be "brought forward” in a human being, but that he is his past at every
moment and that the present is merely that which his past is capable of noticing
and smelling and reacting to.

From ARTHUR MILLER’S COLLECTED PLAYS. Copyright © 1957 by Arthur Miller. Used by per-
mission of The Viking- Press, Inc.

I wished to create a form which, in itself as a form, would literally be the
process of Willy Loman’s way of mind. But to say "wished” is not accurate. Any
dramatic form is an artifice, a way of transforming a subjective feeling into some¬
thing that can be comprehended through public symbols. Its efficiency as a form
is to be judged — at least by the writer — by how much of the original vision and
feeling is lost or distorted by this transformation. I wished to speak of the salesman
most precisely as I felt about him, to give no part of that feeling away for the
sake of any effect or any dramatic necessity. What was wanted now was not a
mounting line of tension, nor a gradually narrowing cone of intensifying suspense,
but a bloc, a single chord presented as such at the outset, within which all the,
strains and melodies would already be contained. The strategy, as with All My Sons,
was to appear entirely unstrategic but with a difference. This time, if I could, I
would have told the whole story and set forth all the characters in one unbroken
speech or even one sentence or a single flash of light. As I look at the play now
its form seems the form of a confession, for that is how it is told, now speaking
of what happened yesterday, then suddenly following some connection to a time
twenty years ago, then leaping even further back and then returning to the present
and even speculating about the future.

Where in All My Sons it had seemed necessary to prove the connections be¬
tween the present and the past, between events and moral consequences, between
the manifest and the hidden, in this play all was assumed as proven to begin with.
All I was doing was bringing things to mind. The assumption, also, was that
everyone knew Willy Loman. I can realize this only now, it is true, but it is equally
apparent to me that I took it somehow for granted then. There was still the
attitude of the unveiler, but no bringing together of hitherto unrelated things; only
pre-existing images, events, confrontations, moods, and pieces of knowledge. So
there was a kind of confidence underlying this play which the form itself expresses,
:ven a naivete, a self-disarming quality that was in part born of my belief in the
audience as being essentially the same as myself. If I had wanted, then, to put the
audience reaction into words, it would not have been "What happens next and
why?” so much as "Oh, God, of course!” . . .

As I have said, the structure of events and the nature of its form are also the
direct reflection of Willy Loman’s way of thinking at this moment of his life. He
was the kind of man you see muttering to himself on a subway, decently dressed,
on his way home or to the office, perfectly integrated with his surroundings ex¬
cepting that unlike other people he can no longer restrain the power of his ex¬
perience from disrupting the superficial sociality of his behavior. Consequently he
is working on two logics which often collide. For instance, if he meets his son
Happy while in the midst of some memory in which Happy disappointed him,
he is instantly furious at Happy, despite the fact that Happy at this particular
moment deeply desires to be of use to him. He is literally at that terrible moment

when the voice of the past is no longer distant but quite as loud as the voice

of the present. In dramatic terms the form, therefore, is this process, instead of
being a once-removed summation or indication of it.

The way of telling the tale, in this sense, is as mad as Willy and as abrupt

and as suddenly lyrical. And it is difficult not to add that the subsequent imitations

of the form had to collapse for this particular reason. It is not possible, in my
opinion, to graft it onto a character whose psychology it does not reflect, and I have
not used it since because it would be false to a more integrated — or less disintegrating
— personality to pretend that the past and the present are so openly and vocally

5

intertwined in his mind. The ability of people to down their past is normal, and
without it we could have no comprehensible communication among men. In the
hands of writers who see it as an easy way to elicit anterior information in a play
it becomes merely a flashback. There are no flashbacks in this play but only a
mobile concurrency of past and present, and this, again, because in his desperation
to justify his life Willy Loman has destroyed the boundaries between now and
then, just as anyone would do who, on picking up his telephone, discovered that
this perfectly harmless act had somehow set off an explosion in his basement. The
previously assumed and believed-in results of ordinary and accepted actions, and
their abrupt and unforeseen — but apparently logical — effects, form the basic col¬
lision in this play, and, I suppose, its ultimate irony. . . .

The play grew from simple images. From a little frame house on a street of
little frame houses, which had once been loud with the noise of growing boys,
and then was empty and silent and finally occupied by strangers. Strangers who
could not know with what conquistadorial joy Willy and his boys had once re¬
shingled the roof. Now it was quiet in the house, and the wrong people in the beds.

It grew from images of futility — the cavernous Sunday afternoons polishing
the car Where is that car now? And the chamois cloths carefully washed and put
up to dry, where are the chamois cloths?

And the endless, convoluted discussions, wonderments, arguments, belittlements,
encouragements, fiery resolutions, abdications, returns, partings, voyages out and
voyages back, tremendous opportunities and small, squeaking denouements— and
all in the kitchen now occupied by strangers who cannot hear what the walls are
saying.

The image of aging and so many of your friends already gone and strangers
in the seats of the mighty who do not know you or your triumphs or your incredible
value.

The image of the son’s hard, public eye upon you, no longer swept by your
myth, no longer rousable from his separateness, no longer knowing you have lived
for him and have wept for him.

The image of ferocity when love has turned to something else and yet is there,
is somewhere in the room if one could only find it.

The image of people turning into -strangers who only evaluate one another.

Above all, perhaps, the image of a need greater than hunger or sex or thirst,
a need to leave a thumbprint somewhere on the world. A need for immortality,
and by admitting it, the knowing that one has carefully inscribed one s name on
a cake of ice on a hot July day.

I sought the relatedness of all things by isolating their unrelatedness, a man
superbly alone with his sense of not having touched, and finally knowing in his
last extremity that the love which had always been in the room unlocated was now

found. ,

The image of a suicide so mixed in motive as to be unfathomable and yet de¬
manding statement. Revenge was in it and a power of love, a victory in that it
would bequeath a fortune to the living and a flight from emptiness. With it an
image of peace at the final curtain, the peace that is between wars, the peace leaving
the issues above ground and viable yet.

And always, throughout, the image of private man in a world full of strangers,
a world that is not home nor even an open battleground but only galaxies of high
promise over a fear of falling.

LEE J. COBB

is a performer of enormous intelligence and skill who brings innate integrity
to any role he plays. This very particular combination of qualities has made
him one of America’s foremost actors. Although he has been active in
films and television, his basic training was in the legitimate theatre. Cobb
began his career with the Pasadena Playhouse, remaining with the company
for three years. In 1935, he joined the Group Theatre, then under the
aegis of Harold Clurman. Roles in W diting for Lefty, Golden Boy and
The Gentle People soon followed. Thereafter he played Dr. Stefan Kurtz
in Thunder Rock and Jerry Wilenski in Clash By Night. His film appear¬
ances include On the Waterfront and a remarkable performance in Tivelve
Angry Men. In television he has appeared in 1, Don Quixote and Darkness
At Noon. However, the role for which he is best known is his deeply mov¬
ing and compassionate portrayal of Willy Loman. The newspapers all seem
to have lighted on one word for that performance — magnificent. It is a
performance that we had to re-create on records in its entirety.

MICHAEL TOLAN

has played in The Dybbuk, Volpone and Murder in the Cat bed) al, and
has had a major television success as Dr. Tazinski in The Doctors and
The Nurses. He is one of the founders and directors of the American
Place Theatre, one of the most productive and daring new theatrical ven¬
tures. He has been acclaimed for readings of Lorca and Auden on Camera 3
and for his appearances at the YMHA’s Poetry Center. Constantly in
demand on television, he won a Sylvania nomination for the best per¬
formance for his role in Teddy Bear on the Kraft Playhouse. On Broadway,
he created the role of Mother in A Hatful of Rain, played Romanoff in
Romanoff and fuliet, the diplomat son-in-law in A Majority of One and
Freud opposite Kim Stanley in A Far Country. He is unmistakably one
of the most exciting young actors in New York today.

ARTHUR MILLER

was what educational psychologists today would call an underachiever. That,
perhaps, is why they are educational psychologists, and he is America s
foremost playwright.

He was born on 1 12th Street in Manhattan in 1915, one of three children.
Until young manhood his chief interest was in sports. He was converted
to the word by reading Dostoevski in the subway. While at the University
of Michigan, he won the Hopwood Award for playwriting and a prize
of $1,250 given by the Theatre Guild’s Bureau of New Plays. In 1938,
Miller joined the Federal Theatre Project. In 1944, he published a diary
kept while visiting various army camps under the title Situation Normal
and, in 1945, his only novel, Focus. In the same year his first play,
The Man Who Had All the Luck, was produced. There were only four
performances. In 1947, All My Sons opened. This time there was a
run on the box-office and the play was voted best of the season by the
Drama Critics’ Circle. 1949 brought Death of a Salesman. The Crucible
was produced in 1953; A View From the Bridge and A Memory of Two
Mondays in 1955; an adaptation of Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People in
1958. During the 1964-65 season, the Repertory Theatre of Lincoln
Center produced his two latest works, After the Fall and Incident in Vichy.

MILDRED DUNNOCK

is a name that will make ticket purchasers out of idle browsers, for her
performances have never been anything but memorable. She has earned
critical acclaim time and time again for her sensitive portrayal of the half-
crazed Lavinia Hubbard in. Lillian Heilman’s Another Part of the Forest;
for her deft characterization of the fluttery school teacher in The Corn is
Green; for her part as the Chinese mother-in-law in Lute Song ; for her
overwhelming performance as Big Mama in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; for
her film performances in The Nun’s Story and Sweet Bird of Youth. But
there is one role out of all the roles she has played that is particularly hers
— Linda Loman in Death of a Salesman. It is her creation and it is only
appropriate that she should make her debut for The Theatre Recording
Society in this play opposite Lee J. Cobb as Willy.

GENE WILLIAMS

is an exceptionally talented young actor who is quite new to the New York
theatrical scene. He has done several seasons of summer stock and has ap¬
peared in a number of productions in and around New York, including
The World of Jules Feiffer at the Huntington Hills Playhouse. Young as
he is, he has already been featured in a film, Light Fantastik.

ULU GROSBARD

first caught the imagination of playgoers as the director of The Days and
Nights of Beebee Fenstermaker, the longest running hit of the 1962-1963
off -Broadway season. He moved uptown with The Subject Was Roses,
which garnered the Pulitzer Prize, The Drama. Critics’ Circle Award and
the Tony Award. Next, he co-produced and directed Arthur Miller’s The
View From the Bridge off -Broadway. It was an enormous success; the
production won the Vernon Rice Award for outstanding achievement, and
Mr. Grosbard the Obie for best director. One of the versatile young men
who commute between theatre and films, he has worked as assistant director
to Elia Kazan on Splendor in the Grass, to Robert Rossen on The Hustler,
and to Arthur Penn on The Miracle Worker.

1949: THE ORIGINAL PRODUCTION
John Mason Brown

From The Saturday Reo/etu of Literature — February 26th, 1949

the staggering impact of the blow. Mr. Miller’s is a terrific wallop, as furious
in its onslaught on the heart as on the head. His play is the most poignant state¬
ment of man as he must face himself to have come out of our theatre. It finds
the stuffs of life so mixed with the stuffs of the stage that they become one and
indivisible.

If the proper study of mankind is man, man’s inescapable problem is himself —
what he would like to be, what he is, what he is not, and yet what he must live
and die with. These are the moving, everyday, all-inclusive subjects with which
Mr. Miller deals in "Death of a Salesman.” He handles them unflinchingly, with
enormous sympathy, with genuine imagination, and in a mood which neither the
prose of his dialogue nor the reality of his probing can rob of its poetry. More¬
over, he has the wisdom and the insight not to blame the "system,” in Mr. Odets’s
fashion, for what are the inner frailties and shortcomings of the individual. His
rightful concern is with the dilemmas which are timeless in the drama because
they are timeless in life.

Mr. Miller’s play is a tragedy modern and personal, not classic and heroic. Its
central figure is a little man sentenced to discover his smallness rather than a big
man undone by his greatness. Although he happens to be a salesman tested and
found wanting by his own very special crises, all of us sitting out front are bound
to be shaken, long before the evening is over, by finding something of ourselves
in him. . . .

Although "Death of a Salesman” is set in the present, it also finds time and
space to include the past. It plays the agonies of the moment of collapse against
the pleasures and sorrows of recollected episodes. Mr. Miller is interested in more
than the life and fate of his central character. His scene seems to be Willy Loman’s
mind and heart no less than his home. What we see might just as well be what
Willy Loman thinks, feels, fears, or remembers, as what we see him doing. This
gives the play a double and successful exposure in time. It makes possible the

George Jean Nathan once de¬
scribed a certain actress’s Camille
as being the first Camille he had
ever seen who had died of catarrh.
This reduction in scale of a major
disease to an unpleasant annoyance
is symptomatic of more than the
acting practice of the contemporary stage. Even our dramatists, at least most of
them, tend in their writing, so to speak, to turn t.b. into a sniffle. They seem ashamed
of the big things; embarrassed by the raw emotions; afraid of the naked passions;
and unaware of life’s brutalities and tolls.

Of understatement they make a fetish. They have all the reticences and timidities
of the over-civilized and undemonstrative. They pride themselves upon writing
around a scene rather than from or to it; upon what they hold back instead of upon
what they release. They paint with pastels, not oils, and dodge the primary anguishes
as they would the primary colors.

Their characters belong to an anemic brood. Lacking blood, they lack not only
violence but humanity. They are the puppets of contrivance, not the victims of
circumstance or themselves. They are apt to be shadows without substance, surfaces
without depths. They can be found in the dramatis personae but not in the tele¬
phone book. If they have hearts, their murmurings are seldom audible. They
neither hear nor allow us to hear those inner whisperings of hope, fear, despair,
or joy, which are the true accompaniment to spoken words. Life may hurt them,
but they do not suffer from the wounds it gives them so that we, watching them,
are wounded ourselves and suffer with them.

This willingness, this ability, to strike unflinchingly upon the anvil of human
sorrow is one of the reasons for O’Neill’s pre-eminence and for the respect in which
we hold the best work of Clifford Odets and Tennessee Williams. It is also the
source of Arthur Miller’s unique strength and explains why his fine new play,
"Death of a Salesman,” is an experience at once pulverizing and welcome.

Mr. Miller is, of course, remembered as the author of "Focus,” a vigorous
and terrifying novel about anti-Semitism, and best known for "All My Sons,” which
won the New York Critics’ Award two' seasons back. Although that earlier play
lacked the simplicity, hence the muscularity, of Mr. Miller’s novel, it was notable
for its force. Over-elaborate as it may have been, it introduced a new and un¬
mistakable talent. If as a young man’s script it took advantage of its right to betray
influences, these at least were of the best. They were Ibsen and Chekhov. The
doctor who wandered in from next door might have been extradited from "The
Three Sisters,” The symbolical use to which the apple tree was put was pure Ibsen.
So, too, was the manner in which the action was maneuvered from the present
back into the past in order to rush forward. Even so, Mr. Miller’s own voice could
be heard in "All My Sons,” rising strong and clear above those other voices. It
was a voice that deserved the attention and admiration it won. It was not afraid of
being raised. It spoke with heat, fervor, and compassion. Moreover, it had some¬
thing to say.

In "Death of a Salesman” this same voice can be heard again. It has deepened
in tone, developed wonderfully in modulation, and gained in carrying power.
Its authority has become full-grown. Relying on no borrowed accents, it now
speaks in terms of complete accomplishment rather than exciting promise. Indeed,
it is released in a drama which is not only by all odds the best play to have been
written by an American this season, but a play which provides one of the modern
theatre’s most overpowering evenings.

How good the writing of this or that of Mr. Miller’s individual scenes may
be, I do not know. Nor do I really care. When hit in the face, you do not bother
to count the knuckles which strike you. All that matters, all you remember, is

Copyright © 1949 by Johni Mason Brown. Originally published- in The Saturday Review of Literature,
February 26, 1949.

constant fusion of what has been and what is. It also enables it to achieve a greater
reality by having been freed from the fetters of realism.

Once again Mr. Miller shows how fearless and perceptive an emotionalist he is.
He writes boldly and brilliantly about the way in which we disappoint those we
love by having disappointed ourselves. He knows the torment of family tensions,
the compensations of friendship, and the heartbreak that goes with broken pride
and lost confidence. He is aware of the loyalties, not blind but open-eyed, which
are needed to support mortals in their loneliness. The anatomy of failure, the
pathos of age, and the tragedy of those years when a life begins to slip down the
hill it has labored to climb are subjects at which he excels.

The quality and intensity of his writing can perhaps best be suggested by letting
Mr. Miller speak for himself, or rather by allowing his characters to speak for him,
in a single scene; in fact, in the concluding one. It is then that Willy s wife, his
two sons, and his old friend move away from Jo Mielziner’s brilliantly simple
and imaginative multiple setting, and advance to the footlights. It is then that
Mr. Miller’s words supply a scenery of their own. Willy Loman, the failure and
suicide, has supposedly just been buried, and all of us are at his grave, including
his wife who wants to cry but cannot and who keeps thinking that it is just as if he
were off on another trip.

"You don’t understand,” says Willy’s friend, defending Willy from one of his
sons. "Willy was a salesman; and for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the
life. He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law, or give you medicine.
He’s a man way out there in the blue, ridin on a smile and a shoeshine; and when
they start not smilin’ back — boys, that’s an earthquake. And then you get yourself
a couple a spots on your hat, and you’re finished. Nobody dast blame this man.
A salesman is got to dream, boys ; it comes with the territory.

The production of "Death of a Salesman” is as sensitive, human, and powerful
as the writing. . . . Special mention must be made of Lee J. Cobb and Mildred

Dunnock as the salesman, Willy Loman, and his wife, Linda. Miss Dunnock is
all heart, devotion, simplicity. She is unfooled but unfailing. She is the smiling
mothering, hardworked, good wife, the victim of her husband s budget. She is the
nourisher of his dreams, even when she knows they are only dreams ; the feeder
of his self-esteem. If she is beyond whining or nagging, she is above self-pity.
She is the marriage vow — "for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness
and in health” — made flesh; slight of body but strong of faith.

Mr. Cobb’s Willy Loman is irresistibly touching and wonderfully unsparing.
He is a great shaggy bison of a man seen at that moment of defeat when he is
deserted by the herd and can no longer run with it. Mr. Cobb makes clear the
pathetic extent to which the herd has been ^JCilly s life. He also communicates the
fatigue of Willy’s mind and body and that boyish hope and buoyancy which his
heart still retains. Age, however, is his enemy. He is condemned by it. He can no
more escape from it than he can from himself. The confusions, the weakness, the
goodness, the stupidity, and the self-sustaining illusions which are Willy all of
these are established by Mr. Cobb. Seldom has an average man at the 'moment of
his breaking been characterized with such exceptional skill.

Did Willy Loman, so happy with- a batch of cement, when puttering around
the house, or when acquaintances on the road smiled back at him, fail to find out
who he was? Did this man, who worked so hard and meant so well, dream the
wrong dream? At least he was willing to die by that dream, even when it had
collapsed for him. He was a breadwinner almost to the end, and a breadwinner
even in his death. Did the world walk out on him, and his sons see through him?
At any rate he could boast one friend who believed in him and thought his had
been a good dream, "the only dream you can have.” Who knows? Who can say?
One thing is certain. No one could have raised the question more movingly or com¬
passionately than Arthur Miller.

— John Mason Brown

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

SIDE I

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute.
It is small and fine, telling of grass and
trees and the horizon. The curtain rises.

Before us is the Salesman s house. We
are aware of towering, angular shapes
behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only
the blue light of the sfiy falls upon the
house and forestage; the surrounding area
shows an angry glow of orange. As more
light appears, we see a solid vault of apart¬
ment houses around the small, fragile-
seeming home. An air of the dream clings
to the place, a dream rising out of reality.
The \itchen at center seems actual enough,
for there is a \itchen table with three
chairs, and a refrigerator. But no other fix¬
tures are seen. At the bac\ of the \itchen
there is a draped entrance, which leads to
the living-room. To the right of the
fiitchen, on a level raised two feet, is a
bedroom furnished only with a brass bed¬
stead and a straight chair. On a shelf over
the bed a silver athletic trophy stands. A
window opens onto the apartment house
at the side.

Behind the \itchen, on a level raised six
and a half feet, is the boys’ bedroom, at
present barely visible. Two beds are dimly
seen, and at the bac\ of the room a dormer

window. (This bedroom is above the un¬
seen living-room.) At the left a stairway
curves up to it from the kjtchen.

The entire setting is wholly or, in some
places, partially transparent. The roof-line
of the house is one-dimensional; under and
over it we see the apartment buildings. Be¬
fore the house lies an apron, curving be¬
yond the forestage into the orchestra. This
forward area serves as the bac\ yard as
well as the locale of all Willy’s imaginings
and of his city scenes. Whenever the action
is in the present the actors observe the
imaginary wall-lines, entering the house
only through its door at the left. But in the
scenes of the past these boundaries are
broken, and characters enter or leave a
room by stepping “through" a wall onto
the forestage.

From the right, Willy Loman, the Sales¬
man, enters, carrying two large sample
cases. The flute plays on. He hears but is
not aware of it. He is past sixty years of
age, dressed quietly. Even as he crosses the
stage to the doorway of the house, his ex¬
haustion is apparent. He unloc\s_ the door,
comes into the fiitchen, and thanfijidly lets
his burden down, feeling the soreness of
his palms. A word-sigh escapes his lips — it
might be “Oh, boy, oh, boy!’ He closes the
door, then carries his cases out into the

living-room, through the draped \itchen
doorway.

Linda, his wife, has stirred in her bed at
the right. She gets out and puts on a robe,
listening. Most often jovial, she has devel¬
oped an iron repression of her exceptions
to Willy’s behavior — she more than loves
him, she admires him, as though his mer¬
curial nature, his temper, his massive
dreams and little cruelties, served her only
as sharp reminders of the turbulent long¬
ings within him, longings which she shares
but lacfis the temperament to utter and
follow to their end.

linda ( hearing Willy outside the bed¬
room, calls with some trepidation ). Willy!
willy. It’s all right. I came back.
linda. Why? What happened? ( Slight
pause) Did something happen, Willy?
willy. No, nothing happened.
linda. You didn’t smash the car, did
you?

willy ( with casual irritation). I said
nothing happened. Didn’t you hear me?
linda. Don’t you feel well?
willy. I’m tired to the death. ( The flute
has faded away. He sits on the bed beside
her, a little numb) I couldn’t make it. I
just couldn’t make it, Linda.

linda ( very carefully, delicately). Where

were you all day? You look terrible.

willy. I got as far as a little above Yon¬
kers. I stopped for a cup of coffee. Maybe
it was the coffee.
linda. What?

willy ( after a pause). I suddenly could¬
n’t drive any more. The car kept going off
onto the shoulder, y’know?

linda ( helpfully ). Oh. Maybe it w^s the
steering again. I don’t think Angelo knows
the Studebaker.

willy. No, it’s me, it’s me. Suddenly I
realize I’m goin’ sixty miles an hour and
I don’t remember the last five minutes. I’m
— 1 can’t seem to — keep my mind to it.

linda. Maybe it’s your glasses. You
never went for your new glasses.

willy. No, I see everything. I came back
ten miles an hour. It took me nearly four
hours from Yonkers.

linda (resigned) . Well, you’ll just have
to take a rest, Willy, you can’t continue
this way.

willy. I just got back from Florida.
linda. But you didn’t rest your mind.
Your mind is overactive, and the mind is
what counts, dear.

willy. I’ll start out in the morning.
Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. (She
is tafiing off his shoes) These goddam
arch supports are killing me.

linda. Take an aspirin. Should I get you
an aspirin? It’ll soothe you.

willy (with wonder). I was driving
along, you understand? And I was fine. I
was even observing the scenery. You can
imagine, me looking at scenery, on the
road every week of my life. But it’s so
beautiful up there, Linda, the trees are so
thick, and the sun is warm. I opened the
windshield and just let the warm air bathe
over me. And then all of a sudden I’m
goin’ off the road! I’m tellin’ ya, I abso¬
lutely forgot I was driving. If I’d’ve gone
the other way over the white line I
might’ve killed somebody. So I went on
again — and five minutes later I’m dreamin’
again, and I nearly — (He presses two
fingers against his eyes) I have such
thoughts, I have such strange thoughts.

linda. Willy, dear. Talk to them again.
There’s no reason why you can’t work in
New York.

willy. They don’t need me in New
York. I’m the New England man. I’m
vital in New England.

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

Copyright © 1949 by Arthur Miller. All rights re¬
served. Reprinted by permission of the Viking Press,

' Inc. This play in its printed form is designed for the
’ reading public only. All dramatic rights in it are
fully protected by copyrights and no public or private
j performance — professional or amateur— and no pub-
| lie readings for profit may be given without the
j written permission of the author and the payment of
royalty. Anyone disregarding the author’s rights !
| renders himself liable to prosecution. Communications
should be addressed to the author’s representatives,

1 Ashley Famous Agency. Inc., 1301 Avenue of the
Americas, New York, N. Y.

linda. But you’re sixty years old. They
can’t expect you to keep traveling every
week.

willy. I’ll have to send a wire to Port¬
land. I’m supposed to see Brown and Mor¬
rison tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to
show the line. Goddammit, I could sell
them! ( He starts putting on his jacket)
linda (taking the jacket from him).
Why don’t you go down to the place to¬
morrow and tell Howard you’ve simply
got to work in New York? You’re too ac¬
commodating, dear.

willy. If old man Wagner was alive I’d
a been in charge of New York now! That
man was a prince, he was a masterful man.
But that boy of his, that Howard, he don’t
appreciate. When I went north the first
time, the Wagner Company didn’t know
where New England was!

linda. Why don’t you tell those things
to Howard, dear?

willy ( encouraged ). I will, I definitely
will. Is there any cheese?

linda. I’ll make you a sandwich.
willy. No, go to sleep. I’ll take some
milk. I’ll be up right away. The boys in?

linda. They’re sleeping. Happy took
Biff on a date tonight.
willy ( interested ). That so?
linda. It was so nice to see them shav¬
ing together, one behind the other, in the
bathroom. And going out together. You
notice? The whole house smells of shaving
lotion.

willy. Figure it out. Work a lifetime to
pay off a house. You finally own it, and
there’s nobody to live in it.

linda. Well, dear, life is a casting off.
It’s always that way.

willy. No, no, some people — some peo¬
ple accomplish something. Did Biff say
anything after I went this morning?

linda. You shouldn’t have criticized
him, Willy, especially after he just got off
the train. You mustn’t lose your temper
with him.

willy. When the hell did I lose my
temper? I simply asked him if he was
making any money. Is that a criticism?

linda. But, dear, how could he make
any money?

willy ( worried and angered). There’s
such an undercurrent in him. He became
a moody man. Did he apologize when I
left this morning?

linda. He was crestfallen, Willy. You
know how he admires you. I think if he
finds himself, then you’ll both be happier
and not fight any more.

willy. How can he find himself on a
farm? Is that a life? A farmhand? In the
beginning, when he was young, I thought,
well, a young man, it’s good for him to
tramp around, take a lot of different jobs.
But it’s more than ten years now and he
has yet to make thirty-five dollars a week!
linda. He’s finding himself, Willy.
willy. Not finding yourself at the age
of thirty-four is a disgrace!
linda. Shh!

willy. The trouble is he’s lazy, god
dammit!

linda. Willy, please!
willy. Biff is a lazy bum!
linda. They’re sleeping. Get something
to eat. Go on down.

willy. Why did he come home? I
would like to know what brought him
home.

linda. I don’t know. I think he’s still
lost, Willy. I think he’s very lost.

willy. Biff Loman is lost. In the great¬
est country in the world a young man with
such — personal attractiveness, gets lost.
And such a hard worker. There’s one
thing about Biff — he’s not lazy.
linda. Never.

willy ( with pity and resolve). I’ll see
him in the morning; I’ll have a nice talk
with him. I’ll get him a job selling. He
could be big in no time. My God! Remem¬
ber how they used to follow him around
in high school? When he smiled at one of
them their faces lit up. When he walked
down the street . . . {He loses himself in
reminiscences)

linda {trying to bring him out of it).
Willy, dear, 1 got a new kind of American-
type cheese today. It's whipped.

willy. Why do you get American when
1 like Swiss?

linda. I just thought you’d like a
change —

willy. I don’t want a change! I want
Swiss cheese. Why am I always being con¬
tradicted ?

linda {with a covering laugh). I thought
it would be a surprise.

willy. Why don’t you open a window
in here, for God’s sake?

linda {with infinite patience). They’re

all open, dear.

willy. The way they boxed us in here.
Bricks and windows, windows and bricks.

linda. We should’ve bought the land
next door.

willy. The street is lined with cars.
There’s not a breath of fresh air in the
neighborhood. The grass don’t grow any
more, you can’t raise a carrot in the back
yard. They should’ve had a law against
apartment houses. Remember those two
beautiful elm trees out there? When I and
Biff hung the swing between them?

linda. Yeah, like being a million miles
from the city.

willy. They should’ve arrested the
builder for cutting those down. They mas¬
sacred the neighborhood. {Lost) More and
more I think of those days, Linda. This
time of year it was lilac and wisteria. And
then the peonies would come out, and the
daffodils. What fragrance in this room!

linda. Well, after all, people had to
move somewhere.

willy. No, there’s more people now.
linda. I don’t think there’s more people.
I think —

willy. There’s more people! That’s
what’s ruining this country! Population is
getting out of control. The competition is
maddening! Smell the stink from that
apartment house! And another one on the
other side . . . How can they whip cheese?
{On Willy’s last line, Biff and Happy raise
themselves up in their beds, listening.)
linda. Go down, try it. And be quiet.
willy {turning to Linda, guiltily).
You’re not worried about me, are you,
sweetheart?

biff. What’s the matter?
happy. Listen!

linda. You've got too much on the ball
to worry about.

willy. You’re my foundation and my
support, Linda.

linda. Just try to relax, dear. You make
mountains out of molehills.

willy. I won’t fight with him any more.
If he wants to go back to Texas, let him
g°-

linda. He’ll find his way.
willy. Sure. Certain men just don’t get
started till later in life. Like Thomas Edi¬
son, I think. Or B. F. Goodrich. One of
them was deaf. {He starts for the bedroom
doorway) I’ll put my money on Biff.

linda. And, Willy — if it’s warm Sunday
we’ll drive in the country. And we’ll open
the windshield, and take lunch.

willy. No, the windshields don’t open
on the new cars.

linda. But you opened it today.
willy. Me? I didn’t. {He stops) Now
isn’t that peculiar! Isn’t that remarkable —
{He breaks off in amazement and fright as
the flute is heard distantly)
linda. What, darling?
willy. That is the most remarkable
thing.

linda. What, dear?

willy. I was thinking of the Chewy
{Slight pause) Nineteen twenty-eight . . .
when I had that red Chewy — {Breaks off)
That’s funny? I coulda sworn I was driv¬
ing that Chewy today.

linda. Well, that’s nothing. Something
must’ve reminded you.

willy. Remarkable. Ts. Remember those
days? The way Biff used to simonize that
car? The dealer refused to believe there
was eighty thousand miles on it. {He
shakes his head) Heh! {To Linda) Close
your eyes, I’ll be right up. {He walks out
of the bedroom)

happy {to Biff). Jesus, maybe he smashed
up the car again!

linda {calling after Willy). Be careful
on the stairs, dear! The cheese is on the
middle shelf! {She turns, goes over to the
bed, takes his jacket, and goes out of the
bedroom)

{Light has risen on the boys’ room. Un¬
seen, Willy is heard talking to himself,
“Eighty thousand miles,” and a little
laugh. Biff gets out of bed, comes down¬
stage a bit, and stands attentively . Biff is
two years older than his brother Happy,
well built, but in these days bears a worn
air and seems less self-assured. He has suc¬
ceeded less, and his dreams are stronger
and less acceptable than Happy’s. Happy is
tall, powerfully made. Sexuality is like a
visible color on him, or a scent that many
women have discovered. He, like his
brother, is lost, but in a different way, for
he has never allowed himself to turn his
face toward defeat and is thus more con¬
fused and hard-skinned, although seem¬
ingly more content.)

happy {getting out of bed). He’s going
to get his license taken away if he keeps
that up. I’m getting nervous about him,
y’know, Biff?

11

biff. His eyes are going.
happy. No, I’ve driven with him. He
sees all right. He just doesn t keep his
mind on it. I drove into the city with him
last week. He stops at a green light and
then it turns red and he goes. (He laughs')
biff. Maybe he’s color-blind.
happy. Pop? Why he’s got the finest eye
for color in the business. You know that.

biff (sitting down on his bed). I’m go
ing to sleep.

happy. You’re not still sour on Dad, are
you, Biff?

biff. He’s all right, I guess.
willy (underneath them, tn the livtng-
room). Yes, sir, eighty thousand miles—
eighty-two thousand!
biff. You smoking?
happy (holding out a pack of ciga¬
rettes). Want one?

biff (taking a cigarette). I can never
sleep when I smell it.

willy. What a simonizing job, heh!
happy (with deep sentiment). Funny,
Biff, y’know? Us sleeping in here again?
The old beds. (He pats his bed affection¬
ately) All the talk that went across those
two beds, huh? Our whole lives.
biff. Yeah. Lotta dreams and plans.
happy (with a deep and masculine
laugh). About five hundred women would
like to know what was said in this room.
(They share a short laugh)

BIFF. Remember that big Betsy some¬
thing — what the hell was her name — over
on Bushwick Avenue?

happy (combing his hair). With the
collie dog!

biff. That’s the one. I got you in there,
remember?

happy. Yeah, that was my first time —
I think. Boy, there was a pig! (They laugh,
almost crudely) You taught me everything
1 know about women. Don’t forget that.

biff. I bet you forgot how bashful you
used to be. Especially with girls.
happy. Oh, I still am, Biff.
biff. Oh, go on.

happy. I just control it, that’s all. I think
I got less bashful and you got more so.
What happened, Biff? Where’s the old
humor, the old confidence? (He shakes
Biff’s knee- Sets UP and moves rest¬
lessly about the room) What’s the matter?

biff. Why does Dad mock me all the
time?

happy. He’s not mocking you, he — ■

biff. Everything I say there’s a twist ol
mockery on his face. I can’t get near him.

happy. He just wants you to make good,
that’s all. I wanted to talk to you about
Dad for a long time, Biff. Something’s—
happening to him. He — talks to himself.

biff. I noticed that this morning. But he
always mumbled.

happy. But not so noticeable. It got so
embarrassing I sent him to Florida. And
you know something? Most of the time
he’s talking to you.

biff. What’s he say about me?
happy. I can’t make it out.
biff. What’s he say about me?
happy. I think the fact that you’re not
settled, that you’re stiil kind of up in the
air . . .

biff. There’s one or two other things
depressing him, Happy.

happy. What do you mean?
biff. Never mind. Just don’t lay it all to
me.

happy. But I think if you just got started
— I mean — is there any future for you out
there?

biff. I tell ya, Hap, I don’t know what
the future is. I don’t know — what I m
supposed to want.

happy. What do you mean?
biff. Well, I spent six or seven years
after high school trying to work myself up.
Shipping clerk, salesman, business of one
kind or another. And it’s a measly manner
of existence. To get on that subway on the
hot mornings in summer. To devote your
whole life to keeping stock, or making
phone calls, or selling or buying. To suffer
fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a
two-week vacation, when all you really de¬
sire is to be outdoors, with your shirt off.
And always to have to get ahead of the
next fella. And still— that’s how you build
a future.

happy. Well, you really enjoy it on a
farm? Are you content out there?

biff (with rising agitation). Hap, I ve
had twenty or thirty different kinds of jobs
since I left home before the war, and it
always turns out the same. I just realized
it lately. In Nebraska where I herded cat¬
tle, and the Dakotas, and Arizona, and
now in Texas. It’s why I came home now,
I guess, because I realized it. This farm I
work on, it’s spring there now, see? And
they’ve got about fifteen new colts. There s
nothing more inspiring or — beautiful than

the sight of a mare and a new colt. And
it’s cool there now, see? Texas is cool now,
and it’s spring. And whenever spring
comes to where I am, I suddenly get the
feeling, my God, I’m not gettin’ anywhere!
What the hell am I doing, playing around
with horses, twenty-eight dollars a week!
I’m thirty-four years old, I oughta be mak-
in’ my future. That’s when I come run¬
ning home. And now, I get here, and I
don’t know what to do with myself. (After
a pause) I’ve always made a point of not
wasting my life, and everytime I come
back here I know that all I’ve done is to
waste my life.

happy. You’re a poet, you know that,
Biff? You’re a — you’re an idealist!

biff. No, I’m mixed up very bad. Maybe
I oughta get married. Maybe I oughta get
stuck into something. Maybe that’s my
trouble. I’m like a boy. I’m not married,
I’m not in business, I just — I’m like a boy.
Are you content, Hap? You’re a success,
aren’t you? Are you content?

happy. Hell, no!

biff. Why? You’re making money,
aren’t you?

happy (moving about with energy, ex¬
pressiveness). All I can do now is wait for
the merchandise manager to die. And sup¬
pose I get to be merchandise manager?
He’s a good friend of mine, and he just
built a terrific estate on Long Island. And
he lived there about two months and sold
it, rnd now he’s building another one. He
can’t enjoy it once it’s finished. And I
know that’s just what I would do. I don’t
know what the hell I’m workin for. Some¬
times I sit in my apartment — all alone.
And I think of the rent I’m paying. And
it’s crazy. But then, it’s what I always
wanted. My own apartment, a car, and
plenty of women. And still, goddammit,
I’m lonely.

biff (with enthusiasm). Listen, why
don’t you come out West with me?

happy. You and I, heh?

biff. Sure, maybe we could buy a ranch.
Raise cattle, use our muscles. Men built
like we are should be working out in the
open.

happy (avidly). The Loman Brothers,
heh?

biff (with vast affection). Sure, we d be
known all over the counties!

happy (enthralled) . That’s what I dream
about, Biff. Sometimes I want to just rip

my clothes off in the middle of the store
and outbox that goddam merchandise
manager. I mean I can outbox, outrun, and
outlift anybody in that store, and I have to
take orders from those common, petty
sons-of-bitches till I can t stand it any
more.

biff. I’m tellin’ you, kid, if you were
with me I’d be happy out there.

happy (enthused). See, Biff, everybody
around me is so false that I m constantly
lowering my ideals ...

biff. Baby, together we’d stand up for
one another, we’d have someone to trust.
happy. If I were around you —
biff. Hap, the trouble is we weren’t
brought up to grub for money. I don’t
know how to do it.
happy. Neither can I!
biff. Then let’s go!

happy. The only thing is — what can you
make out there?

biff. But look at your friend. Builds an
estate and then hasn’t the peace of mind
to live in it.

happy. Yeah, but when he walks into
the store the waves part in front of him.
That’s fifty-two thousand dollars a year
coming through the revolving door, and I
got more in my pinky finger than he s got
in his head.

biff. Yeah, but you just said —
happy. I gotta show some of those pom¬
pous, self-important executives over there
that Hap Loman can make the grade. I
want to walk into the store the way he
walks in. Then I’ll go with you, Biff. We 11
be together yet, I swear. But take those
two we had tonight. Now weren t they
gorgeous creatures?

biff. Yeah, yeah, most gorgeous I’ve had
in years.

happy. I get that any time I want, Biff.
Whenever I feel disgusted. The only trou¬
ble is, it gets like bowling or something.
I just keep knockin’ them over and it
doesn’t mean anything. You still run
around a lot? .

BIFF. Naa. I’d like to find a girl — steady,
somebody with substance.

happy. That’s what I long for.
biff. Go on! You’d never come home.
happy. I would! Somebody with charac¬
ter, with resistance! Like Mom, y’know?
You’re gonna call me a bastard when I tell
you this. That girl Charlotte I was with
tonight is engaged to be married in five

12

weeks. (He tries on his new hat)
biff. No kiddin’ !

happy. Sure, the guy’s in line for the
vice-presidency of the store. I don’t know
what gets into me, maybe I just have an
overdeveloped sense of competition or
something, but I went and ruined her, and
furthermore I can’t get rid of her. And
he’s the third executive I’ve done that to.
Isn’t that a crummy characteristic? And
to top it all, I go to their weddings! (In¬
dignantly, but laughing) Like I’m not sup¬
posed to take bribes. Manufacturers offer
me a hundred-dollar bill now and then to
throw an order their way. You know how
honest I am, but it’s like this girl, see. I
hate myself for it. Because I don’t want the
girl, and, still, I take it and — I love it!
biff. Let’s go to sleep.
happy. I guess we didn’t settle anything,
heh?

biff. I just got one idea that I think I’m
going to try.

happy. What’s that?
biff. Remember Bill Oliver?
happy. Sure, Oliver is very big now. You
want to work for him again?

biff. No, but when I quit he said some-_
thing to me. He put his arm on my shoul¬
der and he said, “Biff, if you ever need
anything, come to me.”

happy. I remember that. That sounds
good.

biff. I think I’ll go to see him. If I could
get ten thousand or even seven or eight
thousand dollars I could buy a beautiful
ranch.

happy. I bet he’d back you. ’Cause he
thought highly of you, Biff. I mean, they
all do. You’re well liked, Biff. That’s why
I say to come back here, and we both have
the apartment. And I’m tellin’ you, Biff,
any babe you want . . .

biff. No, with a ranch I could do the
work I like and still be something. I just
wonder though. I wonder if Oliver still
thinks I stole that carton of basketballs.

happy. Oh, he probably forgot that long
ago. It’s almost ten years. You’re too sensi¬
tive. Anyway, he didn’t really fire you.

biff. Well, I think he was going to. I
think that’s why I quit. I was never sure
whether he knew or not. I know he
thought the world of me, though. I was
the only one he’d let lock up the place.

willy (below). You gonna wash the en¬
gine, Biff?

happy. Shh! (Biff looks at Happy, who
is gazing down, listening. Willy is mum¬
bling in the parlor )

happy. You hear that? (They listen.
Willy laughs warmly )'
biff (growing angry). Doesn’t he know
Mom can hear that?

willy. Don’t get your sweater dirty,
Biff! (A look of pain crosses Biff’s face)
happy. Isn’t that terrible? Don’t leave
again, will you? You’ll find a job here.
You gotta stick around. I don’t know what
to do about him, it’s getting embarrassing.
willy. What a simonizing job!
biff. Mom’s hearing that!
willy. No kiddin’, Biff, you got a date?
Wonderful!

happy. Go on to sleep. But talk to him
in the morning, will you?

biff (reluctantly getting into bed). With
her in the house. Brother!

happy (getting into bed). I wish you’d
have a good talk with him.

(The light on their room begins to fade.)

biff (to himself, in bed). That selfish,
stupid . . .

1 happy. Sh . . . Sleep, Biff.

2 Their light is out. Well before they have
finished speaking, Willy’s form is dimly
seen below in the darkened \itchen. He
opens the refrigerator, searches in there
and takes out a bottle of milk ■ The apart¬
ment houses are fading out, and the entire
house and surroundings become covered
with leaves. Music insinuates itself as the
leaves appear.

willy. Just wanna be careful with those
girls, Biff, that’s all. Don’t make any prom¬
ises. No promises of any kind. Because a
girl, y’know, they always believe what you
tell ’em, and you’re very young, Biff,
you’re too young to be talking seriously to
girls.

(Light rises on the kitchen. Willy, talking,
shuts the refrigerator door and comes
downstage to the kitchen table. He pours
milk into a glass. He is totally immersed
in himself, smiling faintly.)

willy. Too young entirely, Biff. You
want to watch your schooling first. Then
when you’re all set, there’ll be plenty of
girls for a boy like you. (He smiles broadly
at a kitchen chair) That so? The girls pay
for you? (He laughs) Boy, you must really
be makin’ a hit.

( Willy is gradually addressing — physically
— a point offstage, speaking through the

wall of the kitchen, and his voice has been
rising in volume to that of a normal con¬
versation.)

willy. I been wondering why you polish
the car so careful. Ha! Don't leave the
hubcaps, boys. Get the chamois to the hub¬
caps. Happy, use newspapers on the win¬
dows, it’s the easiest thing. Show him how
to do it, Biff! You see, Happy? Pad it up,
use it like a pad. That’s it, that’s it, good
work. You’re doin’ all right, Hap. (He
pauses, then nods in approbation for a few
seconds, then looks upward) Biff, first
thing we gotta do when we get time is clip
that big branch over the house. Afraid it’s
gonna fall in a storm and hit the roof. Tell
you what. We get a rope and sling her
around, and then we climb up there with
a couple of saws and take her down. Soon
as you finish the car, boys, I wanna see
ya. I got a surprise for you, boys.

biff (offstage). Whatta ya got, Dad?
willy. No, you finish first. Never leave
a job till you’re finished — remember that.
(Looking toward the “big trees’’) Biff, up
in Albany I saw a beautiful hammock. I
think I’ll buy it next trip, and we’ll hang
it right between those two elms. Wouldn’t
that be something? Just swingin’ there
under those branches. Boy, that would
be . . .

(Young Biff and Young Happy appear
from the direction Willy was addressing.
Happy carries rags and a pail of water.
Biff, wearing a sweater with a block "S,”
carries a football.)

biff (pointing in the direction of the car
offstage). How’s that, Pop, professional?

willy. Terrific. Terrific job, boys. Good
work, Biff.

happy. Where’s the surprise, Pop?
willy. In the back seat of the car.
happy. Boy! (He runs off)
biff. What is it, Dad? Tell me, what’d
you buy?

willy (laughing, cuffs him). Never
mind, something I want you to have.

biff (turns and starts off). What is it,
Hap?

happy (offstage). It’s a punching bag!
biff. Oh, Pop!

willy. It’s got Gene Tunney’s signature
on it!

(Happy runs onstage with a punching
bag.)

biff. Gee, how’d you know we wanted
a punching bag?

willy. Well, it’s the finest thing for the
timing.

happy (lies down on his back and ped¬
als with his feet). I’m losing weight, you
notice, Pop?

willy (to Happy). Jumping rope is
good too.

biff. Did you see the new football I got?
willy (examining the ball). Where’d
you get a new ball?

biff. The coach told me to practice my
passing.

willy. That so? And he gave you the
ball, heh?

biff. Well, l borrowed it from the locker
room. (He laughs confidentially)

willy (laughing with him at the theft).

I want you to return that.

happy. 1 told you he wouldn’t like it!
biff (angrily). Well, I’m bringing it
back !

willy (stopping the incipient argument,
to Happy). Sure, he’s gotta practice with a
regulation ball, doesn’t he? (To Biff)
Coach’ll probably congratulate you on your
initiative!

biff. Oh, he keeps congratulating my
initiative all the time, Pop.

willy. That’s because he likes you. If
somebody else took that ball there! be an
uproar. So what’s the report, boys, what’s
the report?

biff. Where’d you go this time, Dad?
Gee, we were lonesome for you.

willy (pleased, puts an arm around
each boy and they come down to the
apron). Lonesome, heh?

biff. Missed you every minute.
willy. Don’t say? Tell you a secret,
boys. Don’t breathe it to a soul. Someday
I’ll have my own business, and I’ll never
have to leave home any more.
happy. Like Uncle Charley, heh?
willy. Bigger than Uncle Charley! Be¬
cause Charley is not liked. He’s liked, but
lie’s not — well liked.

biff. Where’d you go this time, Dad?
willy. Well, I got on the road, and I
went north to Providence. Met the Mayor.
biff. The Mayor of Providence!
willy. He was sitting in the hotel lobby.
biff. What’d he say?
willy. He said, “Morning!” And I said,
“You got a fine city here, Mayor.” And
then he had coffee with me. And then I
went to Waterbury. Waterbury is a fine
city. Big clock city, the famous Waterbury

13

clock. Sold a nice bill there. And then
Boston — Boston is the cradle of the Revo¬
lution. A fine city. And a couple of other
towns in Mass., and on to Portland and
Bangor and straight home!

biff. Gee, I’d love to go with you some¬
time, Dad.

willy. Soon as summer comes.
iiappy. Promise?

willy. You and Hap and I, and I’ll
show you all the towns. America is full of
beautiful towns and fine, upstanding peo¬
ple. And they know me, boys, they know
me up and down New England. The finest
people. And when I bring you fellas up,
there’ll be open sesame for all of us, ’cause
one thing, boys: I have friends. I can park
my car in any street in New England, and
the cops protect it like their own. This
summer, heh?

biff and happy (together). Yeah! You
bet!

willy. We’ll take our bathing suits.
happy. We’ll carry your bags, Pop!
willy. Oh, won’t that be somethin’! Me
cornin’ into the Boston stores with you
boys carryin’ my bags. What a sensation!
(Biff is prancing around, practicing pass¬
ing the ball.)

willy. You nervous, Biff, about the
game ?

biff. Not if you’re gonna be there.
willy. What do they say about you in
school, now that they made you captain?

happy. There’s a crowd of girls behind
him everytime the classes change.

biff (ta\ing Willy’s hand). This Satur¬
day, Pop, this Saturday — just for you, I’m
going to break through for a touchdown.
happy. You’re supposed to pass.
biff. I’m takfn’ one play for Pop. You
watch me, Pop, and when I take off my
helmet, that means I’m breakin’ out. Then
you watch me crash through that line!

willy (\isses Biff). Oh, wait’ll I tell
this in Boston!

(Bernard enters in \nic\ers. He is younger
than Biff, earnest and loyal, a worried
boy.)

Bernard. Biff, where are you? You’re
supposed to study with me today.

willy. Hey, looka Bernard. What’re you
lookin’ so anemic about, Bernard?

Bernard. He’s gotta study, Uncle Willy.
He’s got Regents next week.

happy (tauntingly , spinning Bernard
around). Let’s box, Bernard!

Bernard. Biff! (He gets away from
Happy) Listen, Biff, I heard Mr. Birn-
baum say that if you don’t start studyin’
math he’s gonna flunk you, and you won’t
graduate. I heard him!

willy. You better study with him, Biff.
Go ahead now.

Bernard. I heard himj
biff. Oh, Pop, you didn’t see my sneak¬
ers! (He holds up a foot for Willy to loo\
at)

willy. Hey, that’s a beautiful job of
printing!

Bernard (wiping his glasses). Just be¬
cause he printed University of Virginia on
his sneakers doesn’t mean they’ve got to
graduate him, Uncle Willy!

willy (angrily). What’re you talking
about? With scholarships to three univer¬
sities they’re gonna flunk him?

Bernard, But I heard Mr. Birnbaum
say — -

willy. Don’t be a pest, Bernard! (To
his boys) What an anemic!

Bernard. Okay, I’m waiting for you in
my house, Biff.

(Bernard goes off. The Lomans laugh.)
willy. Bernard is not well liked, is he?
biff. He’s liked, but he’s not well liked.
happy. That’s right, Pop.
willy. That’s just what I mean. Bernard
can get the best marks in school, y’under-
stand, but when he gets out in the busi¬
ness world, y’understand, you are going to
be five times ahead of him. That’s why I
thank Almighty God you’re both built like
Adonises. Because the man who makes an
appearance in the business world, the man
who creates personal interest, is the man
who gets ahead. Be liked and you will
never want. You take me, for instance. I
never have to wait in line to see a buyer.
“Willy Loman is here!” That’s all they
have to know, and I go right through.
biff. Did you knock them dead, Pop?
willy. Knocked ’em cold in Providence,
slaughtered ’em in Boston.

happy (on his bac\, pedaling again).
I’m losing weight, you notice, Pop?

(Linda enters, as of old, a ribbon in her
hair, carrying a bas\et of washing.)

linda (with youthful energy). Hello,
dear!

willy. Sweetheart!
linda. How’d the Chewy run?
willy. Chevrolet, Linda, is the greatest
car ever built. (To the boys) Since when

14

the man who gets ahead.

interest, is

do you let your mother carry wash up the
stairs ?

biff. Grab hold there, boy!
happy. Where to, Mom?
linda. Hang them up on the line. And
you better go down to your friends, Biff.
The cellar is full of boys. They don’t know
what to do with themselves.

biff. Ah, when" Pop comes home they
can wait!

willy ( laughs appreciatively). You bet¬
ter go down and tell them what to do,

Biff.

biff. I think I’ll have them sweep out
the furnace room.

willy. Good work, Biff.
biff ( goes through wall-line of \itchen
to doorway at back and calls down). Fel¬
las! Everybody sweep out the furnace
room! I’ll be right down!
voices. All right! Okay, Biff!
biff. George and Sam and Frank, come
out back! We’re hangin’ up the wash!
Come on, Hap, on the double! (He and
Happy carry out the basket)
linda. The way they obey him!
willy. Well, that’s training, the train¬
ing. I’m tellin’ you, I was sellin’ thousands
and thousands, but I had to come home.

linda. Oh, the whole block’ll be at that
game. Did you sell anything?

willy. I did five hundred gross in Provi¬
dence and seven hundred gross in Boston.

linda. No! Wait a minute, I’ve got a
pencil. ( She pulls pencil and paper out of
her apron pocket) That makes your com¬
mission . . . Two hundred — my God! Two
hundred and twelve dollars!

willy. Well, I didn’t figure it yet,
but . . .

linda. How much did you do?
willy. Well, I — I did — about a hundred
and eighty gross in Providence. Well, no
— it came to — roughly two hundred gross
on the whole trip.

linda (without hesitation). Two hun¬
dred gross. That’s . . . (She figures)
willy. The trouble was that three of the
stores were half closed for inventory in
Boston. Otherwise I woulda broke records.

linda. Well, it makes seventy dollars
and some pennies. That’s very good.
willy. What do we owe?

LINDA. Well, on the first there’s sixteen
dollars on the refrigerator —
willy. Why sixteen?
linda. Well, the fan belt broke, so it was

a dollar eighty.

willy. But it’s brand new.
linda. Well, the man said that’s the way
it is. Till they work themselves in, y’know.
(They move through the wall-line into the
kitchen.)

willy. I hope we didn’t get stuck on
that machine.

LINDA. They got the biggest ads of any
of them!

willy. I know, it’s a fine machine. What
else?

linda. Well, there’s nine-sixty for the
washing machine. And for the vacuum
cleaner there’s three and a half due on the
fifteenth. Then the roof, you got twenty-
one dollars remaining.

willy. It don’t leak, does it?
linda. No, they did a wonderful job.
Then you owe Frank for the carburetor.

willy. I’m not going to pay that man!
That goddam Chevrolet, they ought to
prohibit the manufacture of that car!

linda. Well, you owe him three and a
half. And odds and ends, comes to around
a hundred and twenty dollars by the fif¬
teenth.

willy. A hundred and twenty dollars!
My God, if business don’t pick up I don’t
know what I’m gonna do!

linda. Well, next week you’ll do better.
willy. Oh, I’ll knock ’em dead next
week. I’ll go to Hartford. I’m very well
liked in Hartford. You know, the trouble
is, Linda, people don’t seem to take to me.
(They move onto the forestage.)
linda. Oh, don’t be foolish.
willy. I know it when I walk in. They
seem to laugh at me.

linda. Why? Why would they laugh at
you? Don’t talk that way, Willy.

(Willy moves to the edge of the stage.
Linda goes into the kitchen and starts to
darn stockings.)

willy. I don’t know the reason for it,
but they just pass me by. I’m not noticed.

linda. But you’re doing wonderful, dear.
You’re making seventy to a hundred dol¬
lars a week.

willy. But I gotta be at it ten, twelve
hours a day. Other men — I don’t know —
they do it easier. I don’t know why — I
can’t stop myself — I talk too much. A man
oughta come in with a few words. One
thing about Charley. He’s a man of few
words, and they respect him.

linda. You don’t talk too much, you’re

just lively.

willy (smiling). Well, I figure, what
the hell, life is short, a couple of jokes. (To
himself) I joke too much! (The smile
goes)

linda. Why? You’re —
willy. I’m fat. I’m very — foolish to look
at, Linda. I didn’t tell you, but Christmas
time I happened to be calling on F. H.
Stewarts, and a salesman I know, as I was
going in to see the buyer I heard him
say something about — walrus. And I- — I
cracked him right across the face. I won’t
take that. I simply will not take that. But
they do laugh at me. I know that.
linda. Darling . . .

willy. I gotta overcome it. I know I
gotta overcome it. I’m not dressing to ad¬
vantage, maybe.

linda. Willy, darling, you’re the hand¬
somest man in the world —
willy. Oh, no, Linda.
linda. To me you are. (Slight pause)
The handsomest.

(From the darkness is heard the laughter
of a woman. Willy doesn’t turn to it, but
it continues through Linda’s lines.)

linda. And the boys, Willy. Few men
are idolized by their children the way you
are.

(Music is heard as behind a scrim, to the
left of the house. The Woman, dimly seen,
is dressing.)

willy (with great feeling). You’re the
best there is, Linda, you’re a pal, you know
that? On the road — on the road I want to
grab you sometimes and just kiss the life
outa you.

(The laughter is loud now, and he moves
into a brightening area at the left, where
The Woman has come from behind the
scrim and is standing, putting on her hat,
looking into a "mirror” and laughing .)

willy. ’Cause I get so lonely — especially
when business is bad and there’s nobody
to talk to. I get the feeling that I’ll never
sell anything again, that I won’t make a
living for you, or a business, a business for
the boys. (He talks through The Woman’s
subsiding laughter; The Woman primps
at the "mirror”) There’s so much I want
to make for —

the woman. Me? You didn’t make me,
Willy. I picked you.

willy (pleased). You picked me?
the woman ( who is quite proper-look¬
ing, Willy’s age). I did. I’ve been sitting at

that desk watching all the salesmen go by,
day in, day out. But you’ve got such a
sense of humor, and we do have such a
good time together, don’t we?

willy. Sure, sure. (He takes her in his
arms) Why do- you have to go now?
the woman. It’s two o’clock ... .
willy. No, come on in! (He pulls her)
the woman. . . . my sisters’ll be scan¬
dalized. When’ll you be back?

willy. Oh, two weeks about. Will you
come up again?

the woman. Sure thing. You do make
me laugh. It’s good for me. ( She squeezes
his arm, kisses him) And I think you’re a
wonderful man.

willy. You picked me, heh?
the woman. Sure. Because you’re so
sweet. And such a kidder.

willy. Well, I’ll see you next time I’m
in Boston.

THE woman. I’ll put you right through
to the buyers.

willy (slapping her bottom ). Right.
Well, bottoms up!

the woman ( slaps him gently and
laughs). You just kill me, Willy. (He sud¬
denly grabs her and kisses her roughly)
You kill me. And thanks for the stockings.

I love a lot of stockings. Well, good night.

willy. Good night. And keep your
pores open!

the woman. Oh, Willy!

(The Woman bursts out laughing, and
Linda’s laughter blends in. The Woman
disappears into the dark ■ Now the area at
the kitchen table brightens. Linda is sit¬
ting where she was at the kitchen table,
but now is mending a pair of her silk
stockings.)

LINDA. You are, Willy. The handsomest
man. You’ve got no reason to feel that —
willy (coming out of The Woman’s
dimming area and going over to Linda).
I’ll make it all up to you. Linda, I’ll —
linda. There’s nothing to make up,
dear. You’re doing fine, better than —
willy (noticing her mending). What’s
that?

linda. Just mending my stockings.
They’re so expensive —

willy (angrily, taking them from her).
I won’t have you mending stockings in
this house! Now throw them out!

(Linda puts the stockings in her pocket.)

Bernard (entering on the run). Where
is he? If he doesn’t study!

willy ( moving to the forestage, with

15

great agitation). You 11 give him the an¬
swers!

Bernard. I do, but I can’t on a Regents.
That’s a state exam! They’re liable to ar¬
rest me!

willy. Where is he? I’ll whip him, Ill
whip him!

LINDA. And he’d better give back that
football, Willy, it’s not nice.

willy. Biff! Where is he? Why is he
taking everything?

linda. He’s too rough with the girls,
Willy. All of the mothers are afraid of
him!

willy. I’ll whip him!

Bernard. He’s driving the car without a
license!

(The Woman’s laugh is heard.)
willy. Shut up!
linda. All the mothers —
willy. Shut up!

Bernard ( backing quietly away and
out). Mr. Birnbaum says he’s stuck up.
willy. Get outa here!

Bernard. If he doesn’t buckle down he 11
flunk math! (He goes off)

linda. He’s right, Willy, you’ve gotta—
willy (exploding at her). There’s noth¬
ing the matter with him! You want him
to be a worm like Bernard? He’s got spir¬
it, personality . . .

(As he speaks, Linda, almost in tears,
exits into the living-room. Willy is alone
in the kitchen, jilting and staring. The
leaves are gone. It is night again, and the
apartment houses look down from be¬
hind.)

willy. Loaded with it. Loaded! What is
he stealing? He’s giving it back, isn’t he?
Why is he stealing? What did I tell him?

1 never in my life told him anything but
decent things.

(Happy in pajamas has come down the
stairs; Willy suddenly becomes aware of
Happy’s presence.)

happy. Let’s go now, come on.
willy (sitting down at the \itchen
table). Huh! Why did she have to wax the
floors herself? Everytime she waxes the
floors she keels over. She knows that!

HAPPY. Shh! Take it easy. What brought
you back tonight?

willy. I got an awful scare. Nearly hit
a kid in Yonkers. God! Why didn’t I go
to Alaska with my brother Ben that time!
Ben! That man was a genius, that man
was success incarnate! What a mistake!

He begged me to go.

happy. Well, there’s no use in —
willy. You guys! There was a man
started with the clothes on his back and
ended up with diamond mines!

happy. Boy, some day I’d like to know
how he did it.

WILLY. What’s the mystery? The man
knew what he wanted and went out and
got it! Walked into a jungle, and comes
out, the age of twenty-one, and he’s rich!
The world is an oyster, but you don’t
crack it open on a mattress!

happy. Pop, I told you I m gonna retire
you for life.

WILLY. You’ll retire me for life on sev¬
enty goddam dollars a week? And your
women and your car and vour apartment,
and you’ll retire me for life! Christ’s sake,

I couldn’t get past Yonkers today! Where
are you guys, where are you? The woods
are burning! I can’t drive a car!

(Charley has appeared in the doorway. He
is a large man, slow of speech, laconic,
immovable. In all he says, despite what he
says, there, is pity, and, now, trepidation.
He has a robe over pajamas, slippers on
his feet. He enters the kitchen.)

CHARLEY. Everything all right?
happy. Yeah, Charley, everything’s . . .
willy. What’s the matter?
charley. I heard some noise. I thought
something happened. Can’t we do some¬
thing about the walls? You sneeze in here,
and in my house hats blow off.

happy. Let’s go to bed, Dad. Come on.
( Charley signals to Happy to go.)

willy. You go ahead, I’m not tired at
the moment.

happy (to Willy). Take it easy, huh?
(He exits )

willy. What’re you doin’ up?
charley ( sitting down at the kitchen
table opposite Willy). Couldn’t sleep good.
I had a heartburn.

willy. Well, you don’t know how to
eat.

charley. I eat with my mouth.
willy. No, you’re ignorant. You gotta
know about vitamins and things like that.

charley. Come on, let’s shoot. Tire you
out a little.

willy (hesitantly). All right. You got
cards?

charley (taking a deck from his pock¬
et). Yeah, I got them. Someplace. What is
it with those vitamins?

16

willy (dealing). They build up your
bones. Chemistry.

charley. Yeah, but there’s no bones in
a heartburn.

willy. What are you talkin about? Do
you know the first thing about it?

CHARLEY. Don’t get insulted.
willy. Don’t talk about something you
don’t know anything about.

(They are playing. Pause.)

charley. What’re you doin home?
willy. A little trouble with the car.
charley. Oh. (Pause) I’d like to take a
trip to California.
willy. Don’t say.
charley. You want a job?
willy. I got a job, I told you that.
(After a slight pause) What the hell are
you offering me a job for?
charley. Don’t get insulted.
willy. Don’t insult me.
charley. I don’t see no sense in it. You
don’t have to go on this way.

willy. I got a good job. (Slight pause)
What do you keep cornin’ in here for?
CHARLEY. You want me to go?

WILLY (after a pause, withering). I can’t
understand it. He’s going back to Texas
again. What the hell is that?
charley. Let him go.
willy. I got nothin’ to give him, Char¬
ley, I’m clean, I’m clean.

charley. He won’t starve. None of
them starve. Forget about him.

willy. Then what have I got to remem¬
ber?

charley. You take it too hard. To hell
with it. When a deposit bottle is broken
you don’t get your nickel back.

willy. That’s easy enough for you to
say.

charley. That ain’t easy for me to say.
willy. Did you see the ceiling I put up
in the living-room?

charley. Yeah, that’s a piece of work.
To put up a ceiling is a mystery to me.
How do you do it?

willy. What’s the difference?
charley. Well, talk about it.
willy. You gonna put up a ceiling?
charley. How could I put up a ceiling?
willy. Then what the hell are you both¬
ering me for?

charley. You’re insulted again.
willy. A man who can’t handle tools is
not a man. You’re disgusting.

charley Don’t call me disgusting,

Willy.

(Uncle Ben, carrying a valise and an um¬
brella, enters the forestage from around
the right corner of the house. He is a
stolid man, in his sixties, with a mustache
and an authoritative air. He is utterly cer¬
tain of his destiny, and there is an aura
of far places about him. He enters exactly
as Willy speaks ■)

willy. I’m getting awfully tired, Ben.
(Ben’s music is heard. Ben looks around
at everything.)

charley. Good, keep playing; you 11
sleep better. Did you call me Ben?

(Ben looks at his watch.)

willy. That’s funny. For a second there
you reminded me of my brother Ben.

ben. I only have a few minutes. (He
strolls, inspecting the place. Willy and
Charley continue playing)

charley. You never heard from him
again, heh? Since that time?

willy. Didn’t Linda tell you? Couple
of weeks ago we got a letter from his wife
in Africa. He died.

CHARLEY. That SO.

ben (chuckling). So this is Brooklyn,
eh?

charley. Maybe you’re in for some of
his money.

willy. Naa, he had seven sons. There’s
just one opportunity I had with that
man . . .

ben. I must make a train, William.
There are several properties I’m looking
at in Alaska.

willy. Sure, sure! If I’d gone with him
to Alaska that time, everything would’ve
been totally different.

charley. Go on, you’d froze to death up
there.

willy. What’re you talking about?
ben. Opportunity is tremendous in Alas¬
ka, William. Surprised you’re not up there.
willy. Sure, tremendous.
charley. Heh?

willy. There was the only man I ever
met who knew the answers.

CHARLEY. Who?

ben. How are you all?
willy (taking a pot, smiling). Fine,
fine.

CHARLEY. Pretty sharp tonight.
ben. Is Mother living with you?
willy. No, she died a long time ago.
CHARLEY. Who?

BEN. That’s too bad. Fine specimen of a
lady, Mother.

willy (to Charley). Heh?
ben. I’d hoped to see the old girl.
charley. Who died?
ben. Heard anything from Father, have
you?

willy (unnerved). What do you mean,
who died?

charley ( taking a pot). What’re you
talkin’ about?

ben (looking at his watch). William,
it’s half -past eight!

willy (as though to dispel his confu¬
sion be angrily stops Charley’s hand).
That’s my build!

charley. I put the ace —
willy. If you don’t know how to play
the game I’m not gonna throw my money
away on you!

charley (rising). It was my ace, for
God’s sake!

willy. I’m through, I’m through!
ben. When did Mother die?
willy. Long ago. Since the beginning
you never knew how to play cards.

charley ( picks up the cards and goes
to the door). All right! Next time I’ll
bring a deck with five aces.

willy. I don’t play that kind of game!
charley (turning to him). You ought
to be ashamed of yourself!
willy. Yeah?

charley. Yeah! (He goes out)
willy (slamming the door after him).
Ignoramus!

ben ( as Willy comes toward him
through the wall-line of the kitchen). So
you’re William.

willy (shaking Ben’s hand). Ben! I’ve
been waiting for you so long! What’s the
answer? How did you do it?

ben. Oh, there’s a story in that.

(Linda enters the forestage, as of old, car¬
rying the wash basket.)
linda. Is this Ben?

ben (gallantly). How do you do, my
dear.

linda. Where’ve you been all these
years? Willy’s always wondered why
you —

willy ( pulling Ben away from her im¬
patiently). Where is Dad? Didn’t you fol¬
low him? How did you get started?

ben. Well, I don’t know how much you
remember.

willy. Well, I was just a baby, of
course, only three or four years old —
ben. Three years and eleven months.
willy. What a memory, Ben!

ben. I have many enterprises, William,
and I have never kept books.

willy. I remember I was sitting under
the wagon in — was it Nebraska?

ben. It was South Dakota, and I gave
you a bunch of wild flowers.

willy. I remember you walking away
down some open road.

ben (laughing). I was going to find
Father in Alaska.
willy. Where is he?
ben. At that age I had a very faulty view
of geography, William. I discovered after
a few days that I was heading due south,
so instead of Alaska, I ended ud in Africa.,
linda. Africa!
willy. The Gold Coast!
ben. Principally diamond mines.
linda. Diamond mines!
ben. Yes, my dear. But I’ve only a few
minutes—

willy. No! Boys! Boys! (Young Biff
and Happy appear) Listen to this. This is
your Uncle Ben, a great man! Tell my
boys, Ben!

ben. Why, boys, when I was seventeen
I walked into the jungle, and when I was
twenty-one I walked out. (He laughs)
And by God I was rich.

willy (to the boys). You see what I
been talking about? The greatest things
can happen!

ben (glancing at his watch). I have an
appointment in Ketchikan Tuesday week.

willy. No, Ben! Please tell about Dad.

I want my boys to hear. I want them to

know the kind of stock they spring from.
All I remember is a man with a big beard,
and 1 was in Mamma’s lap, sitting around
a fire, and some kind of high music.
ben. His flute. He played the flute.
willy. Sure, the flute, that’s right!
(New music is heard, a high, rollicking
tune.)

ben. Father was a very great and a very
wild-hearted man. We would start in Bos¬
ton, and he’d toss the whole family into
the wagon, and then he’d drive the team
right across the country; through Ohio,
and Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, and all
the Western states. And we’d stop in the
towns and sell the flutes that he’d made
on the way. Great inventor, Father. With
one gadget he made more in a week than
a man like you could make in a lifetime.

willy. That’s just the way I’m bringing
them up, Ben — rugged, well liked, all-
around.

ben. Yeah? (To Biff) Hit that, boy —
hard as you can. (He pounds his stomach)
biff. Oh, no, sir!

ben (taking boxing stance). Come on,
get to me! (He laughs)

willy. Go to it, Biff! Go ahead, show
him!

biff. Okay! (He cocks his fists and starts
in)

linda (to Willy). Why must he fight,
dear?

ben (sparring with Biff). Good boy!
Good boy!

willy. How’s that, Ben, heh?

happy. Give him the left, Biff!
linda. Why are you fighting?
ben. Good boy! (Suddenly comes in,
trips Biff, and stands over him, the point
of his umbrella poised over Biff’s eye )
linda. Look out, Biff!
happy Gee! He tripped him.
ben (patting Biff’s knee). Never fight
fair with a stranger, boy. You’ll never get
out of the jungle that way. (Taking Lin¬
da’s hand and bowing) It was an honor
and a pleasure to meet you, Linda.

linda ( withdrawing her hand coldly,
frightened). Have a nice — trip.

ben - ( to Willy). And good luck with
your— what do you do?
willy. Selling.

ben. Yes. Well . . . (He raises his hand
in farewell to all )

willy. No, Ben, I don’t want you to
think . . . (He takes Ben’s arm to show
him) It’s Brooklyn, I know, but we hunt
too

ben. Really, now.

willy. Oh, sure, there’s snakes and rab¬
bits and— that’s why I moved out here.
Why, Biff can fell any one of these trees
in no time! Boys! Go right over to where
they’re building the apartment house and
get some sand. We’re gonna rebuild the
entire front stoop right now! Watch this,
Ben!

biff. Yes, sir! On the double, Hap!
happy (as he and Biff run off). I lost
weight, Pop, you notice?

( Charley enters in knickers, even before
the boys are gone.)

charley. Listen, if they steal any more
from that building the watchman’ll put
the cops on them!

linda (to Willy). Don’t let Biff . . .
(Ben laughs lustily.)

willy. You shoulda seen the lumbpr
they brought home last week. At least a
dozen six-by-tens worth all kinds a money.
charley. Listen, if that watchman —
willy. I gave them hell, understand.
But I got a couple of fearless characters
there.

charley. Willy, the jails are full of fear¬
less characters.

ben ( clapping Willy on the back, with a
laugh at Charley). And the stock ex¬
change, friend!

willy (joining in Ben’s laughter )
Where are the rest of your pants?

charley. My wife bought them. They’ re
Knickers.

If you don’t know how to play the game I’m not gonna throw my money away on you!

17

WILLY. Now all you need is a golf club
and you can go upstairs and go to sleep.
(To Ben) Great athlete! Between him
and his son Bernard they can’t hammer a

nail! ,

Bernard' (rushing in). The watchmans

chasing Biff!

willy (angrily). Shut up! He s not
stealing anything!

LINDA (alarmed, hurrying off left).
Where is he? Biff, dear! (She exits)

willy ( moving toward the left, away
from Ben). There’s nothing wrong.
What’s the matter with you?
ben. Nervy boy. Good!
willy (laughing). Oh, nerves of iron,

that Biff! . .

CHARLEY. Don’t know what it is. My
New England man comes back and he s
bleedin’, they murdered him up there.

willy. It’s contacts, Charley, I got im¬
portant contacts!

charley (sarcastically). Glad to hear it,
Willy. Come in later, we’ll shoot a little
casino. I’ll take some of your Portland
money. (He laughs at Willy and exits)
willy (turning to Ben). Business is
bad, it’s murderous. But not for me, of
course.

ben. I’ll stop by on my way back to
Africa.

willy (longingly). Can’t you stay a tew
days? You’re just what I need, Ben, be¬
cause I— I have a fine position here, but I
—well, Dad left when I was such a baby
and I never had a chance to talk to him
and I still feel— ‘kind of temporary about
myself.

ben. I’ll be late for my train.

(They are at opposite ends of the stage.)

willy. Ben, my boys — cant we talk?
They’d go into the jaws of hell for me,
see, but I —

ben. William, you’re being first-rate
with your boys. Outstanding, manly chaps.

willy (hanging on to his words). Oh,
Ben, that’s good to hear! Because some¬
times I’m afraid that I’m not teaching
them the right kind of— Ben, how should
I teach them?

ben (giving great weight to each word,
and with a certain vicious audacity). Wil¬
liam, when I walked into the jungle, I
was seventeen. When I walked out I was
twenty-one. And, by God, I was rich! (He
goes off into the darkness around the right
corner of the house )

willy. . . . was rich! That s just the
spirit I want to imbue them with! To walk
into a jungle! I was right! I was right! I
was right!

(Ben is gone, but Willy is still speaking to
him as Linda, in nightgown and robe, en¬
ters the \itchen, glances around for Willy,
then goes to the door of the house, looks
out and sees him. Comes down to his left.
He looks at her.)

linda. Willy, dear? Willy?
willy. I was right!

linda. Did you have some cheese? (He
can’t answer) It’s very late, darling. Come
to bed, heh?

willy (looking straight up). Gotta
break your neck to see a star in this yard.
LINDA. You coming in?
willy. Whatever happened to that dia¬
mond watch fob? Remember? When Ben
came from Africa that time? Didn’t he
give me a watch fob with a diamond
in it?

linda. You pawned it, dear. Twelve,
thirteen years ago. For Biff’s radio cor¬
respondence course.

willy. Gee, that was a beautiful thing.
I’ll take a walk.

linda. But you’re in your slippers.
willy (starting to go around the house
at the left). I was right! I was! (Half to
Linda, as he goes, shaking his head)
What a man! There was a man worth
talking to. I was right!

linda (calling after Willy). But in your
flippers, Willy!

3 Willy is almost gone when Biff, in his
pajamas, comes down the stairs and enters
the kitchen.

biff. What is he doing out there?
linda. Sh!

biff. God Almighty, Mom, how long
has he been doing this?

linda. Don’t, he’ll hear you.
biff. What the hell is the matter with
him?

linda. It’ll pass by morning.
biff. Shouldn’t we do anything?
linda. Oh, my dear, you should do a
lot of things, but there’s nothing to do, so
go to sleep.

(Happy comes down the stairs and sits on
the steps.)

happy. I never heard him so loud, Mom.
linda. Well, come around more often;
you’ll hear him. (She sits down at the

table and mends the lining of Willy s
jacket )

biff. Why didn’t you ever write me
about this, Mom?

linda. How would I write to you? For
over three months you had no address.

biff. I was on the move. But you know
I thought of you all the time. You know
that, don’t you, pal?

linda. I know, dear, I know. But he
likes to have a letter. Just to know that
there’s still a possibility for better things.

biff. He’s not like this all the time, is
he?

linda. It’s when you come home he’s al¬
ways the worst.

biff. When I come home?
linda. When you write you’re coming,
he’s all smiles, and talks about the future,
and — he’s just wonderful. And then the
closer you seem to come, the more shaky
he gets, and then, by the time you get
here, he’s arguing, and he seems angry at
you. I think it’s just that maybe he can’t
bring himself to— open up to you. Why
are you so hateful to each other? Why is
that?

biff (evasively). Im not hateful, Rlom.
linda. But you no sooner come in' the
door than you’re fighting!

biff. I don’t know why, I mean to
change. I’m tryin’, Mom, you understand?
linda. Are you home to stay now?
biff. I don’t know. I want to look
around, see what’s doin .

linda. Biff, you can t look around all
your life, can you?

biff. I just can’t take hold, Mom. I can t
take hold of some kind of a life.

linda. Biff, a man is not a bird, to come
and go with the springtime.

biff. Your hair ... (He touches her
hair) Your hair got so gray.

linda. Oh, it’s been gray since you were
in high school. I just stopped dyeing it,

that’s all. t

biff. Dye it again, will ya? I don t want
my pal looking old. (He smiles)

linda. You’re such a boy! You think
ycu can go away for a year and . . .
You’ve got to get it into your head now
that one day you’ll knock on this door
and there’ll be strange people here—
biff. What are you talking about?
You’re not even sixty, Mom.

linda. But what about your father?
biff (lamely). Well, I meant him too.

happy. He admires Pop.
linda. Biff, dear, if you don’t have any
feeling for him, then you can’t have any
feeling for me.

biff. Sure I can, Mom.
linda. No. You can’t just come to see
me, because I love him. ( With a threat,
but only a threat, of tears) He’s the dear¬
est man in the world to me, and I won t
have anyone making him feel unwanted
and low and blue. You’ve got to make up
your mind now, darling, there’s no leeway
any more. Either he’s your father and you
pay him that respect, or else you re not to
come here. I know he’s not easy to get
along with — nobody knows that better
than me — but . . .

willy (from the left, with a laugh).
Hey, hey, Biffo!

biff (starting to go out after Willy).
What the hell is the matter with him?

( Happy stops him )

linda. Don’t — don’t go near him!
biff. Stop making excuses for him! He
always, always wiped the floor with you!
Never had an ounce of respect for you.
happy. He’s always had respect for —
biff. What the hell do you know about
it?

happy (surlily). Just don’t call him
crazy!

biff. He’s got no character — Charley
wouldn’t do this. Not in his own house-
spewing out that vomit from his mind.

happy. Charley never had to cope with
what he’s got to.

biff. People are worse off than Willy
Loman. Believe me, I’ve seen them!

linda. Then make Charley your father,
Biff. You can’t do that, can you? I don’t
say he’s a great man. Willy Loman never
made a lot of money. His name was never
in the paper. He’s not the finest character
that ever lived. But he’s a human being,
and a terrible thing is happening to him.
So attention must be paid. He’s not to be
allowed to fall into his grave like an old
dog. Attention, attention must be finally
paid to such a person. You called him
crazy —

biff. I didn’t mean —

linda. No, a lot of people think he’s
lost his — balance. But you don’t have to
be very smart to know what his trouble is.
The man is exhausted.

happy. Sure!

linda. A small man can be just as ex-

18

hausted as a great man. He works for a
company thirty-six years this March, opens
up unheard-of territories to their trade¬
mark, and now in his old age they take
his salary away.

happy ( indignantly ). I didn’t know
that, Mom.

linda. You never asked, my dear! Now
that you get your spending money some¬
place else you don’t trouble your mind
with him.

happy. But I gave you money last —
linda. Christmas time, fifty dollars! To
fix the hot water it cost ninety-seven fifty!
For five weeks he’s been on straight com¬
mission, like a beginner, an unknown!
biff. Those ungrateful bastards!
linda. Are they any worse than his
sons? When he brought them business,
when he was young, they were glad to see
him. But now his old friends, che old buy¬
ers that loved him so and always found
some order to hand him in a pinch —
they’re all dead, retired. He used to be
able to make six, seven calls a day in Bos¬
ton. Now he takes his valises out of the
car and puts them back and takes them
out again and he’s exhausted. Instead of
walking he talks now. He drives seven
hundred miles, and when he gets there no
one knows him any more, no one wel¬
comes him. And what goes through a
man’s mind, driving seven hundred miles
home without having earned a cent? Why
shouldn’t he talk to himself? Why? When
he has to go to Charley and borrow fifty
dollars a week and pretend to me that it’s
his pay? How long can that go on? How
long? You see what I’m sitting here and
waiting for? And you tell me he has no
character? The man who never worked a
day but for your benefit? When does he
get the medal for that? Is this his reward
— to turn around at the age of sixty-three
and find his sons, who he loved better than
his life, one a philandering bum —
happy. Mom!

linda. That’s all you are, my baby! (To
Biff) And you! What happened to the
love you had for him? You were such
pals! How you used to talk to him on the
phone every night! How lonely he was
till he could come home to you!

biff. All right, Mom. I’ll live here in my
room, and I’ll get a job. I’ll keep away
from him, that’s all.

linda. No, Biff. You can’t stay here and
fight all the time.

biff. He threw me out of this house,
remember that.

linda. Why did he do that? I never
knew why.

biff. Because I know he’s a fake and he
doesn’t like anybody around who knows!

linda. Why a fake? In what way?
What do you mean?

biff. Just don’t lay it all at my feet. It’s
between me and him — that’s all I have to
say. I’ll chip in from now on. He’ll settle
for half my pay check. He’ll be all right.
I’m going to bed. (He starts for the
stairs )

linda. He won’t be all right.
biff ( turning on the stairs, furiously).
I hate this city and I’ll stay here. Now
what do you want?

linda. He’s dying, Biff.

(. Happy turns quickly to her, shocked.)
biff ( after a pause). Why is he dying?
linda. He’s been trying to kill himself.
biff ( with great horror). How?
linda. I live from day to day.
biff. What’re you talking about?
linda. Remember I wrote you that he
smashed up the car again? In February?
biff. Well?

linda. The insurance inspector came. He
said that they have evidence. That all these
accidents in the last year — weren’t —
weren’t — accidents.

happy. How can they tell that? That’s a
lie.

linda. It seems there’s a woman . . .
(i She takes a breath as)

biff ( sharply but contained). What
woman?

linda ( simultaneously ). . . . and this
woman . . .
linda. What?
biff. Nothing. Go ahead.
linda. What did you say?
biff. Nothing. I just said what woman?
happy. What about her?
linda. Well, it seems she was walking
down the road and saw his car. She says
that he wasn’t driving fast at all, and that
he didn’t skid. She says he came to that
little bridge, and then deliberately smashed
into the railing, and it was only the shal¬
lowness of the water that saved him.

biff. Oh, no, he probably just fell asleep
again.

linda. I don’t think he fell asleep.

biff. Why not?

linda. Last month . . . ( With great diffi¬
culty) Oh, boys, it’s so hard to say a thing
like this! He’s just a big stupid man to
you, but I tell you there’s more good in
him than in many other people. ( She
chokes, wipes her eyes) I was looking for
a fuse. The lights blew out, and I went
down the cellar. And behind the fuse box
— it happened to fall out — was a length of
rubber pipe — just short.
happy. No kidding?
linda. There’s a little attachment on the
end of it. I knew right away. And sure
enough, on the bottom of the water heater
there’s a new little nipple on the gas pipe.
happy (angrily). That — jerk.
biff. Did you have it taken off?
linda. I’m — I’m ashamed to. How can I
mention it to him? Every day I go down
and take away that little rubber pipe. But,
when he comes home, I put it back where
it was. How can I insult him that way? I
don’t know what to do. I live from day to
day, boys. I tell you, I know every thought
in his mind. It sounds so old-fashioned and
silly, but I tell you he put his whole life
into you and you’ve turned your backs on
him. ( She is bent over in the chair, weep¬
ing, her face in her hands) Biff, I swear to
God ! Biff, his life is in your hands !

happy (to Biff). How do you like that
damned fool!

biff (kissing her). All right, pal, all
right. It’s all settled now. I’ve been remiss.
I know that, Mom. But now I’ll stay, and
I swear to you, I’ll apply myself. (Kneel¬
ing in front of her, in a fever of self-
reproach) It’s just — you see, Mom, I don’t
fit in business. Not that I won’t try. I’ll try,
and I’ll make good.

happy. Sure you will. The trouble with
you in business was you never tried to
please people.
biff. I know, I —

happy. Like when you worked for Har¬
rison’s. Bob Harrison said you were tops,
and then you go and do some damn fool
thing like whistling whole songs in the
elevator like a comedian.

biff (against Happy). So what? I like
to whistle sometimes.

happy. You don’t raise a guy to a respon¬
sible job who whistles in the elevator!
linda. Well, don’t argue about it now.
happy. Like when you’d go off and

swim in the middle of the day instead of
taking the line around.

biff (his resentment rising). Well, don’t
you run off? You take off sometimes, don’t
you? On a nice summer day?
happy. Yeah, but I cover myself!
linda. Boys!

happy. If I’m going to take a fade the
boss can call any number where I’m sup¬
posed to be and they’ll swear to him that I
just left. I’ll tell you something that I hate
to say, Biff, but in the business world some
of them think you’re crazy.

biff (angered). Screw the business
world !

happy. All right, screw it! Great, but
cover yourself!
linda. Hap, Hap!

biff. I don’t care what they think!
They’ve laughed at Dad for years, and you
know why? Because we don’t belong in
this nuthouse of a city! We should be
mixing cement on some open plain, or —
or carpenters. A carpenter is allowed to
whistle!

(Willy walks in from the entrance of the
house, at left.)

willy. Even your grandfather was bet¬
ter than a carpenter. (Pause. They watch
him) You never grew up. Bernard does
not whistle in the elevator, I assure you.

biff (as though to laugh Willy out of
it). Yeah, but you do, Pop.

willy. I never in my life whistled in an
elevator! And who in the business world
thinks I’m crazy?

biff. I didn’t mean it like that, Pop.
Now don’t make a whole thing out of it,
will ya?

willy. Go back to the West! Be a car¬
penter, a cowboy, enjoy yourself!
linda. Willy, he was just saying —
willy. I heard what be said!
happy (trying to quiet Willy). Hey,
Pop, come on now . . .

willy (continuing over Happy’s line).
They laugh at me, heh? Go to Filene’s, go
to the Hub, go to Slattery’s, Boston. Call
out the name Willy Loman and see what
happens! Big shot!
biff. All right, Pop.
willy. Big!
biff. All right!

willy. Why do you always insult me?
biff. I didn’t say a word. (To Linda)
Did I say a word?

linda. He didn’t say anything, Willy.

19

willy ( going to the doorway of the liv¬
ing-room). All right, good night, good
night.

LINDA. Willy, dear, he just decided . . .
willy (to Biff). If you get tired hanging
around tomorrow, paint the ceiling I put
up in the living-room.

biff. I’m leaving early tomorrow.
happy. He’s going to see Bill Oliver,
Pop.

willy (interestedly). Oliver? For what?
biff (with reserve, but trying, , trying).
He always said he’d stake me. I d like to
go into business, so maybe I can take him
up on it.

LINDA. Isn’t that wonderful?
willy. Don’t interrupt. What’s wonder¬
ful about it? There’s fifty men in the City
of New York who’d stake him. (To Biff)
Sporting goods?

biff. I guess so. I know something about
it and —

willy. He knows something about it!
You know sporting goods better than
Spalding, for God’s sake! How much is he
giving you?

biff. I don’t know, I didn’t even see him
yet, but —

willy. Then what’re you talkin about.
biff (getting angry). Well, all I said
was I’m gonna see him, thats all!

willy (turning away). Ah, you re
counting your chickens again.

biff (starting left for the stairs). Oh,
Jesus, I’m going to sleep!

willy (calling after him). Don’t curse
in this house!

biff (turning). Since when did you get
so clean?

happy (trying to stop them). Wait a . . .
willy. Don’t use that language to me!

I won’t have it!

happy (grabbing Biff, shouts). Wait a
minute! I got an idea. I got a feasible idea.
Come here, Biff, let’s talk this over now,
let’s talk some sense here. When I was
down in Florida last time, I thought of a
great idea to sell sporting goods. It just
came back to me. You and I, Biff— we
have a line, the Loman Line. We train a
couple of weeks, and put on a couple of
exhibitions, see?

willy. That’s an idea!
happy. Wait! We form two basketball
teams, see? Two water-polo teams. We
play each other. It’s a million dollars
worth of publicity. Two brothers, see?

The Loman Brothers. Displays in the
Royal Palms— all the hotels. And banners
over the ring and the basketball court:
“Loman Brothers.” Baby, we could sell
sporting goods!

willy. That is a one-million-dollar idea!
linda. Marvelous!

biff. I’m in great shape as far as that’s
concerned.

happy. And the beauty of it is, Biff, it
wouldn’t be like a business. We’d be out
playin’ ball again . . .

biff (enthused) . Yeah, that’s . . .
willy. Million-dollar . . .
happy. And you wouldn’t get fed up
with it, Biff. It’d be the family again.
There’d be the old honor, and comrade¬
ship, and if you wanted to go off for a
swim or somethin’ — well, you d do it!
Without some smart cooky gettin’ up
ahead of you!

willy. Lick the world! You guys to¬
gether could absolutely lick the civilized
world.

biff. I’ll see Oliver tomorrow. Hap, if
we could work that out . . .

linda. Maybe things are beginning to —
willy (wildly enthused , to Linda). Stop
interrupting !> (To Biff) But don’t wear
sport jacket and slacks when you see
Oliver.

biff. No, I’ll —

willy. A business suit, and talk as little
as possible, and don’t crack any jokes.
biff. He did like me. Always liked me.
linda. He loved you!
willy (to Linda). Will you stop? (To
Biff) Walk in very serious. You are not
applying for a boy’s job. Money is to pass.
Be quiet, fine, and serious. Everybody
likes a kidder, but nobody lends him
money.

happy. I’ll try to get some myself, Biff.
I’m sure I can.

willy. I see great things for you kids.
I think your troubles are over. But remem¬
ber, start big and you’ll end big. Ask foi
fifteen. How much you gonna ask for?
biff. Gee, I don’t know —
willy. And don’t say “Gee.” “Gee is a
boy’s word. A man walking in for fifteen
thousand dollars does not say “Gee!”
biff. Ten, I think, would be top though.
willy. Don’t be so modest. You always
started too low. Walk in with a big laugh.
Don’t look worried. Start off with a couple
of your good stories to lighten things up.

It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it —
because personality always wins the day.

linda. Oliver always thought the highest
of him —

willy. Will you let me talk?
biff. Don’t yell at her, Pop, will ya?
willy (angrily). I was talking, wasnt
I?

biff. I don’t like you yelling at her all
the time, and I’m tellin’ you, that’s all.

willy. What’re you, takin’ over this
house?

linda. Willy —

willy (turning on her). Don’t take his
side all the time, goddammit!

biff (furiously). Stop yelling at her!
willy (suddenly pulling on his chee\,
beaten down, guilt ridden). Give my best
to Bill Oliver — he may remember me. (He
exits through the living-room doorway)
linda (her voice subdued). What’d you
have to start that for? (Biff turns away)
You see how sweet he was as soon as you
talked hopefully? (She goes over to Biff)
Come up and say good night to him.
Don’t let him go to bed that way.

happy. Come on, Biff, let’s buck him up.
linda. Please, dear. Just say good night.
It takes so little to make him happy. Come.
(She goes through the living-room door¬
way, calling upstairs from within the liv¬
ing-room) Your pajamas are hanging in
the bathroom, Willy!

happy (looking toward where Linda
went out). What a woman! They broke
the mold when they made her. You know
that, Biff?

biff. He’s off salary. My God, working
on commission!

happy. Well, let’s face it: he’s no hot-
shot selling man. Except that sometimes,
you have to admit, he’s a sweet personality.

biff (deciding) . Lend me ten bucks,
will ya? I want to buy some new ties.

happy. I’ll take you to a place I know.
Beautiful stuff. Wear one of my stripe'd
shirts tomorrow.

biff. She got gray. Mom got awful old.
Gee, I’m gonna go in to Oliver tomorrow
and knock him for a —

happy. Come on up. Tell that to Dad.
Let’s give him a whirl. Come on.

biff (steamed up). You know, with ten
thousand bucks, boy!

happy (as they go into the living-room).
That’s the talk, Biff, that’s the first time
I’ve heard the old confidence out of you!

(From within the living-room, fading off)
You’re gonna live with me, kid, and any
babe you want just say the word ... (The
last lines are hardly heard. They are
mounting the stairs to their parents’ bed¬
room)

linda (entering her bedroom and ad¬
dressing Willy, who is in the bathroom.
She is straightening the bed for him). Can
you do anything about the shower? It
drips.

willy (from the bathroom). All of a
sudden everything falls to pieces! Goddam
plumbing, oughta be sued, those people. I
hardly finished putting it in and the
thing . . . (His words rumble off)

linda. I’m just wondering if Oliver will
remember him. You think he might?

willy (coming out of the bathroom in
his pajamas). Remember him? What’s the
matter with you, you crazy? If he’d’ve
stayed with Oliver be’d be on top by now!
Wait’ll Oliver gets a look at him. You
don’t know the average caliber any more.
The average young man today — (He- is
getting into bed) — is got a caliber of zero.
Greatest thing in the world for him was to
bum around.

(Biff and Happy enter the bedroom. Slight
pause.)

willy (stops short, looking at Biff).
Glad to hear it, boy.

happy. He wanted to say good night to
you, sport.

willy (to Biff). Yeah. Knock him dead,
boy. What’d you want to tell me?

biff. Just take it easy, Pop. Good night.
(He turns to go)

willy (unable to resist). And if any¬
thing falls off the desk while you’re talk¬
ing to him— like a package or something
—don’t you pick it up. They have office
boys for that.

linda. I’ll make a big breakfast—
willy. Will you let me finish? (To Biff)
Tell him you were in the business in the
West. Not farm work.
biff. All right, Dad.
linda. I think everything —
willy (going right through her speech).
And don’t undersell yourself. No less than
fifteen thousand dollars.

biff (unable to bear him). Okay. Good
night, Mom. (He starts moving)

willy. Because you got a greatness in
you, Biff, remember that. You got all

kinds a greatness . . . ( He lies back, ex¬
hausted. Biff walks out)

linda ( calling after Biff).' Sleep well,
darling!

happy. I’m gonna get married, Mom. I
wanted to tell you.

linda. Go to sleep, dear.
happy (going). I just wanted to tell you.
willy. Keep up the good work. (Happy
exits) God . . . remember that Ebbets
Field game? The championship of the
city?

linda. Just rest. Should I sing to you?
willy. Yeah. Sing to me. (Linda hums
a soft lullaby) When that team came out —
he was the tallest, remember?

linda. Oh, yes. And in gold.

(Biff enters the darkened kitchen, ta\es a
cigarette, and leaves the house. He comes
downstage into a golden pool of light. He
smokes, staring at the night.)

willy. Like a young god. Hercules —
something like that. And the sun, the sun
all around him. Remember how he waved
to me? Right up from the field, with the
representatives of three colleges standing
by? And the buyers I brought, and the
cheers when he came out — Loman, Lo-
man, Loman! God Almighty, he’ll be great
yet. A star like that, magnificent, can
never really fade away!

(The light on Willy is fading. The gas
heater begins to glow through the kitchen
wall, near the stairs, a blue flame beneath
red coils.)

linda (timidly). Willy dear, what has
he got against you?

willy. I’m so tired. Don’t talk any more.
(Biff slowly returns to the k}tchen. He
stops, stares toward the heater.)

linda. Will you ask Howard to let you
work in New York?

willy. First thing in the morning. Ev¬
erything’ll be all right.

(Biff reaches behind the heater and draws
out a length of rubber tubing. He is horri¬
fied and turns his head toward Willy’s
room, still dimly lit, from which the strains
of Lindas desperate but monotonous hum¬
ming rise.)

willy (staring through the window into
the moonlight). Gee, look at the moon
moving between the buildings!

(Biff wraps the tubing around his hand
and quickly goes up the stairs.)

CURTAIN

You wait, kid, before it’s all over we're gonna get a little place out in the country, and I’ll raise some vegetables, a couple of chickens . . .

ACT TWO

Music is heard, gay and bright. The
curtain rises as the music fades away.
Willy, in shirt sleeves, is sitting at the
kitchen table, sipping coffee, his hat in his.
lap. Linda is filling his cup when she can.

willy. Wonderful coffee. Meal in itself.
linda. Can I make you some eggs?
willy. No. Take a breath.
linda. You look so rested, dear.
willy. I slept like a dead one. First time
in months. Imagine, sleeping till ten on a
Tuesday morfiing. Boys left nice and early,
heh?

linda. They were out of here by eight
o’clock.

willy. Good work!

linda. It was so thrilling to see them
leaving together. I can’t get over the shav¬
ing lotion in this house!
willy (smiling). Mmm —
linda. Biff was very changed this morn¬
ing. His whole attitude seemed to be hope¬
ful. He couldn t wait to get downtown to
see Oliver.

willy. He’s heading for a change.

There’s no question, there simply are cer¬
tain men that take longer to get — solidi¬
fied. How did he dress?

linda. His blue suit. He’s so handsome
in that suit. He could be a — anything in
that suit!

(Willy gets up from the table. Linda holds
his jacket for him.)

willy. There’s no question, no question
at all. Gee, on the way home tonight I’d
like to buy some seeds.

linda (laughing). That’d be wonderful.
But not enough sun gets back there. Noth¬
ing’ll grow any more.

willy. You wait, kid, before it’s all over
we’re gonna get a little place out in the
country, and I’ll raise some vegetables, a
couple of chickens . . .

linda. You’ll do it yet, dear.

(Willy walks out of his jacket- Linda fol¬
lows him.)

willy. And they’ll get married, and
come for a weekend. I’d build a little guest
house. ’Cause I got so many fine tools, all
I’d need would be a little lumber and some
peace of mind.

linda (joyfully). I sewed the lining . . .
willy. I could build two guest houses,

so they’d both come. Did he decide how
much he’s going to ask Oliver for?

linda (getting him into the jacket). He
didn’t mention it, but I imagine ten or fif¬
teen thousand. You going to talk to How¬
ard today?

willy. Yeah, I’ll put it to him straight
and simple. He’ll just have to take me off
the road.

linda. And Willy, don’t forget to ask
for a little advance, because we’ve got the
insurance premium. It’s the grace period
now.

willy. That’s a hundred . . . ?
linda. A hundred and eight, sixty-eight.
Because we’re a little short again.
willy. Why are we short?
linda. Well, you had the motor job on
the car . . .

willy. That goddam Studebaker!
linda. And you got one more payment
on the refrigerator . . .

willy. But it just broke again!
linda. Well, it’s old, dear.
willy. I told you we should’ve bought a
well-advertised machine. Charley bought a
General Electric and it’s twenty years old
and it’s still good, that son-of-a-bitch.
linda. But, Willy —

21

willy. Whoever heard of a Hastings re¬
frigerator. Once in my life I would like to
own something outright before it’s broken!
I’m always in a race with the junkyard! I
just finished paying for the car and it’s on
its last legs. The refrigerator consumes
belts like a goddam maniac. They time
those things. They time them so when you
finally paid for them, they’re used up.

linda ( buttoning up his jacket as he un¬
buttons it). All told, about two hundred
dollars would carry us, dear. But that in¬
cludes the last payment on the mortgage.
After this payment, Willy, the house be¬
longs to us.

willy. It’s twenty-five years!
linda. Biff was nine years old when we
bought it.

WILLY. Well, that’s a great thing. To
weather a twenty-five-year mortgage is —
linda. It’s an accomplishment.
willy. All the cement, the lumber, the
reconstruction I put in this house! There
ain’t a crack to be found in it any more.
linda. Well, it served its purpose.
willy. What purpose? Some stranger’ll
come along, move in, and that’s that. If
only Biff would take this house, and raise
a family . . . (He starts to go) Good-by,
I’m late.

linda (suddenly remembering). Oh, 1
forgot! You’re supposed to meet them for
dinner.
willy. Me?

linda. At Frank’s Chop House on Forty-
eighth near Sixth Avenue.

willy. Is that so! How about you?
linda. No, just the three of you. They’re
gonna blow you to a big meal!

willy. Don’t say! Who thought of that?
linda. Biff came to me this morning,
Willy, and he said, “Tell Dad, we want to
blow him to a big meal.” Be there six
o’clock. You and your two boys are going
to have dinner.

willy. Gee whiz! That’s really some¬
thin’. I’m gonna knock Howard for a loop,
kid. I’ll get an advance, and I’ll come
home with a New York job. Goddammit,
now I’m gonna do it!

linda. Oh, that’s the spirit, Willy!
willy. I will never get behind a wheel
the rest of my life!

linda. It’s changing, Willy, I can feel it
changing!

willy. Beyond a question. G’by, I’m
late. (He starts to go again)

linda (calling after him as she runs to
the kitchen table for a handkerchief). You
got your glasses?

willy (feels for them, then comes back
in). Yeah, yeah, got my glasses.

linda (giving him the handkerchief).
And a handkerchief.

willy. Yeah, handkerchief.
linda. And your saccharine?
willy. Yeah, my saccharine.
linda. Be careful on the subway stairs.
(She kisses him, and a silk stocking is seen
hanging from her hand. Willy notices it.)

willy. Will you stop mending stock¬
ings? At least while I’m in the house. It
gets me nervous. I can’t tell you. Please.
(Linda hides the stocking in her hand as
she follows Willy across the forestage in
front of the house.)

linda. Remember, Frank’s Chop House.
willy (passing the apron). Maybe beets
would grow out there.

linda (laughing). But you tried so
many times.

willy. Yeah. Well, don’t work hard to¬
day. (He disappears around the right cor¬
ner of the house)

3 linda. Be careful!

4 As Willy vanishes, Linda waves to him.
Suddenly the phone rings. She runs across
the stage and into the kitchen and lifts it.

linda. Plello? Oh, Biff! I’m so glad you
called, I just . . . Yes, sure, I just told him.
Yes, he’ll be there for dinner at six o’clock,

I didn’t forget. Listen, I was just dying to
tell you. You know that little rubber pipe
I told you about? That he connected to the
gas heater? I finally decided to go down
the cellar this morning and take it away
and destroy it. But it’s gone! Imagine? He
took it away himself, it isn’t there! (She
listens) When? Oh, then you took it. Oh
nothing, it’s just that I’d hoped he’d taken
it away himself. Oh, I’m not worried, dar¬
ling, because this morning he left in such
high spirits, it was like the old days! I’m
not afraid any more. Did Mr. Oliver see
you? . . . Well, you wait there then. And
make a nice impression on him, darling.
Just don’t perspire too much before you
see him. And have a nice time with Dad.
He may have big news too! . . . That’s
right, a New York job. And be sweet to
him tonight, dear. Be loving to him. Be¬
cause he’s only a little boat looking for a
harbor. (She is trembling with sorrow and
joy) Oh, that’s wonderful, Biff, you’ll save

his life. Thanks, darling. Just put your
arm around him when he comes into the
restaurant. Give him a smile. That’s the
boy . . . Good-by, dear. ... You got your
comb? . . . That’s fine. Good-by, Biff dear.
(In the middle of her speech, Howard
Wagner, thirty-six, wheels in a small type¬
writer table on which is a wire-recording
machine and proceeds to plug it in. This
is on the left forestage. Light slowly fades
on Linda as it rises on Howard. Howard
is intent on threading the machine and
only glances over his shoulder as Willy
appears.)

willy. Pst! Pst!

Howard. Hello, Willy, come in.
willy. Like to have a little talk with
you, Howard.

Howard. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll
be with you in a minute.
willy. What’s that, Howard?

Howard. Didn’t you ever see one of
these? Wire recorder.

willy. Oh. Can we talk a minute?
Howard. Records things. Just got deliv¬
ery yesterday. Been driving me crazy, the
most terrific machine I ever saw in my life.

I was up all night with it.
willy. What do you do with it?
Howard. I bought it for dictation, but
you can do anything with it. Listen to this.

I had it home last night. Listen to what I
picked up. The first one is my daughter.
Get this. (He flicks the switch and “Roll
Out the Barrel ” is heard being whistled )
Listen to that kid whistle.
willy. That is lifelike, isn’t it?

Howard. Seven years old. Get that tone.
willy. Ts, ts. Like to ask a little favor if
you . . .

(The whistling breaks off, and the voice
of Howard’s daughter is heard.)
his daughter. “Now you, Daddy.”
Howard. She’s crazy for me! (Again the
same song is whistled) That’s me! Ha!
(He winks)

willy. You’re very good!

(The whistling breaks off again. The ma¬
chine runs silent for a moment.)

Howard. Sh! Get this now, this is my
son.

his son. “The capital of Alabama is
Montgomery; the capital of Arizona is
Phoenix; the capital of Arkansas is Little
Rock; the capital of California is Sacra¬
mento . . .” (And on, and on)

HOWARD (holding up five fingers). Five

years old, Willy!

willy. He’ll make an announcer some
day!

his son (continuing). “The capital . . .”
Howard. Get that — alphabetical order!
(The machine breaks off suddenly) Wait
a minute. The maid kicked the plug out.
willy. It certainly is a —

Howard. Sh, for God’s sake!
his son. “It’s nine o’clock, Bulova watch
time. So I have to go to sleep.”
willy. That really is —

Howard. Wait a minute! The next is my
wife.

(They wait.)

Howard’s voice. “Go on, say some¬
thing.” (Pause) “Well, you gonna talk?”
his wife. “I can’t think of anything.”
Howard’s voice. “Well, talk — it’s turn¬
ing.”

his wife (shyly, beaten). “Hello. (Si¬
lence) “Oh, Howard, I can’t talk intr
this ...”

Howard (snapping the machine off)
That was my wife.

willy. That is a wonderful machine.
Can we —

Howard. I tell you, Willy, I’m gonna
take my camera, and my bandsaw, and all
my hobbies, and out they go. This is the
most fascinating relaxation I ever found.
willy. I think I’ll get one myself.
Howard. Sure, they’re only a hundred
and a half. You can’t do without it. Sup¬
posing you wanna hear Jack Benny, see?
But you can’t be at home at that hour. So
you tell the maid to turn the radio on
when Jack Benny comes on, and this auto¬
matically goes on with the radio . . .

willy. And when you come home
you . . .

Howard. You can come home twelve
o’clock, one o’clock, any time you like, and
you get yourself a Coke and sit yourself
down, throw the switch, and there’s Jack
Benny’s program in the middle of the
night!

willy. I’m definitely going to get one.
Because lots of time I’m on the road, and
1 think to myself, what I must be missing
on the radio!

Howard. Don’t you have a radio in the
car?

willy. Well, yeah, but who ever thinks
of turning it on?

Howard. Say, aren’t you supposed to be
in Boston?

22

willy. That’s what I want to talk to
you about, Howard. You got a minuter
(He draws a chair in from the wing)
Howard. What happened? What’re you
doing here?

willy. Well ...

Howard. You didn’t crack up again, did
you?

willy. Oh, no. No . . .

Howard. Geez, you had me worried
there for a minute. What’s the trouble?

willy. Well, tell you the truth, Howard.
I’ve come to the decision that I d rather
not travel any more.

Howard. Not travel! Well, what’ll you
do?

willy. Remember, Christmas time,
when you had the party here? You said
you’d try to think of some spot for me
here in town.

HOWARD. With us?
willy. Well, sure.

Howard. Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember.
Well, I couldn’t think of anything for
you, Willy.

willy. I tell ya, Howard. 1 he kids are
all grown up, y’know. I don’t need much
anv moi;e. If I could take home — well,
sixty-five dollars a week, I could swing it.
Howard. Yeah, but Willy, see I — •
willy. I tell ya why, Howard. Speaking
frankly and between the two of us, y’know
—I’m just a little tired.

Howard. Oh, I could understand that,
Willy. But you’re a road man, Willy, and
we do a road business. We’ve only got a
half-dozen salesmen on the floor here.

willy. God knows, Howard, I never
asked a favor of any man. But I was with
the firm when your father used to carry
you in here in his arms.

Howard. I know that, Willy, but —
willy. Your father came to me the day
you were born and asked me what I
thought of the name of Howard, may he
rest in peace.

Howard. I appreciate that, Willy, but
there just is no spot here for you. If I had
a spot I’d slam you right in, but I just
don’t have a single solitary spot.

(He loo/^s for his lighter. Willy has picked
it up and gives it to him. Pause.)

willy (with increasing anger). Howard,
all I need to set my table is fifty dollars a
week.

Howard. But where am I going to put
you, kid?

willy. Look, it isn’t a question of
whether I can sell merchandise, is it?

Howard. No, but it’s a business, kid,
and everybody’s gotta pull his own weight.

willy (desperately). Just let me tell you
a story, Howard — -

Howard. ’Cause you gotta admit, busi¬
ness is business.

willy (angrily). Business is definitely
business, but just listen for a minute. You
don’t understand this. When I was a boy
— eighteen, nineteen — I was already on the
road. And there was a question in my
mind as to whether selling had a future
for me. Because in those days I had a
yearning to go to Alaska. See, there were
three gold strikes in one month in Alaska,
and I felt like going out. Just for the ride,
you might say.

Howard (barely interested). Don’t say.
willy. Oh, yeah, my father lived many
years in Alaska. He was an adventurous
man. We’ve got quite a little streak of
self-reliance in our family. I thought I’d
go out with my older brother dnd try to
locate him, and maybe settle in the North
with the old man. And I was almost de¬
cided to go, when I met a salesman in the
Parker House. His name was Dave Single¬
man. And he was eighty-four years old,
and he’d drummed merchandise in thirty-
one states. And old Dave, he’d go up to his
room, y’understand, put on his green vel¬
vet slippers — I’ll never forget — -and pick up
his phone and call the buyers, and without
ever leaving his room, at the age of eighty-
four, he made his living. And when I saw
that, I realized that selling was the great¬
est career a man could want. ’Cause what
could be more satisfying than to be able
to go, at the age of eighty-four, into twenty
or thirty different cities, and pick up a
phone, and be remembered and loved and
helped by so many different people? Do
you know? when he died — and by the way
he died the death of a salesman, in his
green velvet slippers in the smoker of the
New York, New Haven and Hartford, go¬
ing into Boston — when he died, hundreds
of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral.
Things were sad on a lotta trains for
months after that. (He stands up. Howard
has not looked at him ) In those days there
was personality in it, Howard. There was
respect, and comradeship, and gratitude in
it. Today, it’s all cut and dried, and there’s
no chance for bringing friendship to bear

— or personality. You see what I mean?
They don’t know me any more.

Howard (moving away, to the right).
That’s just the thing, Willy.

willy. If I had forty dollars a week—
that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars, Howard.

Howard. Kid, I can’t take blood from a
stone, I —

willy (desperation is on him now).
Howard, the year A1 Smith was nomi¬
nated, your father came to me and —
Howard (starting to go off). I’ve got to
see some people, kid.

willy (stopping him). I’m talking
about your father! There were promises
made across this desk! You mustn t tell
me you’ve got people to see — I put thirty-
four years into this firm, Howard, and
now I can’t pay my insurance! You cant
eat the orange and throw the peel away
a man is not a piece of fruit! (After a
pause) Now pay attention. Your father —
in 1928 I had a big year. I averaged a hun¬
dred and seventy dollars a week in com¬
missions.

Howard (impatiently) . Now, Willy, you
never averaged — -

willy (banging his hand on the des\).

I averaged a hundred and seventy dollars
a week in the year of 1928; and your
father came to me — or rather, I was in the
office here— it was right over this desk—
and he put his hand on my shoulder
Howard (getting up). You’ll have to ex¬
cuse me, Willy. I gotta see some people.
Pull yourself together. (Going out) I’ll be
back in a little while.

(On Howard’s exit, the light on his chair
grows very bright and strange.)

willy. Pull myself together! What the
hell did I say to him? My God, I was yell¬
ing at him! How could I! (Willy breads
off, staring at the light, which occupies the
chair, animating it. He approaches this
chair, standing across the des\ from it)
Frank, Frank, don’t you remember what
you told me that time? How you put your
hand on my shoulder, and Frank . . . (He
leans on the des\ and as he spea\s the
dead man’s name he accidentally switches
on the recorder, and instantly)

Howard’s son. “. . . of New York is
Albany. The capital of Ohio is Cincinnati,
the capital of Rhode Island is . . .” (The
recitation continues)

willy (leaping away with fright, shout¬
ing). Ha! Howard! Howard! Howard!

Howard (rushing in). What happened?
willy (pointing at the machine, which
continues nasally, childishly , with the capi¬
tal cities). Shut it off! Shut it off!

Howard (pulling the plug out). Look,
Willy . . .

willy (pressing his hands to his eyes).

I gotta get myself some coffee. I’ll get some
coffee . . .

(Willy starts to wal\ out. Howard stops
him.)

Howard (rolling up the cord). Willy,
look . . .

willy. I’ll go to Boston.

Howard. Willy, you can’t go to Boston
for us.

willy. Why can’t I go?

Howard. I don t want you to represent
us. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a
long time now.

willy. Howard, are you firing me?
Howard. I think you need a good long
rest, Willy.

willy. Howard —

Howard. And when you feel better,
come back, and we’ll see if we can work
something out.

willy. But I gotta earn money, Howard.
I’m in no position to —

Howard. Where are your sons? Why
don’t your sons give you a hand?

willy. They’re working on a very big
deal.

Howard. This is no time for false pride,
Willy. You go to your sons and tell them
that you’re tired. You’ve got two great
boys, haven’t you?

willy. Oh, no question, no question,
but in the meantime . . .

Howard. Then that’s that, heh?
willy. All right, I’ll go to Boston to¬
morrow.

HOWARD. No, no.

willy. I can’t throw myself on my sons.
I’m not a cripple!

Howard. Look, kid, I’m busy this morn-
ing.

willy (grasping Howard’s arm). How¬
ard, you’ve got to let me go to Boston!

Howard (hard, \eeping himself under
control). I’ve got a line of people to see
this morning. Sit down, take five minutes,
and pull yourself together, and then go
home, will ya? I need the office, Willy.
(He starts to go, turns, remembering the
recorder, starts to push off the table hold-

ing the recorder ) Oh, yeah. Whenever you
can this week, stop by and drop off the
samples. You’ll feel better, Willy, and then
come back and we’ll talk. Pull yourself to¬
gether, kid, there’s people outside.

(. Howard exits, pushing the table off left.
Willy stares into space, exhausted. Now
the music is heard — Ben’s music — first dis¬
tantly, then closer, closer. As Willy spea\s,
Ben enters from the right. He carries va¬
lise and umbrella.')

willy. Oh, Ben, how did you do it?
What is the answer? Did you wind up the
Alaska deal already?

ben. Doesn’t take much time if you
know what you’re doing. Just a short busi¬
ness trip. Boarding ship in an hour.
Wanted to say good-by.
willy. Ben, I’ve got to talk to you.
ben ( glancing at his watch). Haven t
the time, William.

willy ( crossing the apron to Ben). Ben,
nothing’s working out. I don’t know what
to do.

ben. Now, look here, William. I’ve
bought timberland in Alaska and I need
a man to look after things for me.

willy. God, timberland! Me and my
boys in those grand outdoors!

ben. You’ve a new continent at your
doorstep, William. Get out of these cities,
they’re full of talk and time payments and
courts of law. Screw on your fists and you
can fight for a fortune up there.

willy. Yes, yes! Linda, Linda!

( Linda enters, as of old, with the wash.)
linda. Oh, you’re back?
ben. I haven’t much time.
willy. No, wait! Linda, he’s got a prop¬
osition for me in Alaska.

LittDA. But you’ve got — (To Ben) He’s
got a beautiful job here.

willy. But in Alaska, kid, I could —
linda. You’re doing well enough, Willy!
ben (to Linda), finough for what, dear?
linda (frightened of Ben and angry at
him). Don’t say those things to him!
Enough to be happy right here, right now.
(To Willy, while Ben laughs) Why must
everybody conquer the world? You’re well
liked, and the boys love you, and some¬
day — (To Ben) — why, old man Wagner
told him just the other day that if he keeps
it up he’ll be a member of the firm, didn’t
he, Willy?

willy. Sure, sure. I am building some¬
thing with this firm, Ben, and if a man is

building something he must be on the
right track, mustn’t he?

ben. What are you building? Lay your
hand on it. Where is it?

willy (hesitantly). That’s true, Linda,
there’s nothing.

linda. Why? (To Ben) There’s a man
eighty-four years old —

willy. That’s right, Ben, that’s right.
When I look at that man I say, what is
there to worry about?
ben. Bah!

WILLY. It’s true, Ben. All he has to do is
go into any city, pick up the phone, and
he’s making his living — and you know
why?

ben (picking up his valise). I’ve got to
go.

willy (holding Ben back )■ Look at this
boy!

(Biff, in his high school sweater, enters
carrying suitcase. Happy carries Biff’s
shoulder guards, gold helmet, and football
pants.)

WILLY. Without a penny to his name,
three great universities are begging for
him, and from there the sky’s the limit,

because it’s not what you do, Ben. It’s who
you know and the smile on your face! Its
contacts, Ben, contacts! The whole wealth
of Alaska passes over the lunch table at the
Commodore Hotel, and that’s the wonder,
the wonder of this country, that a man can
end with diamonds here on the basis of
being liked! (He turns to Biff) And that’s
why when you get out on" that field today
it’s important. Because thousands of peo¬
ple will be rooting for you and loving you.
(To Ben, who has again begun to- leave)
And Ben! when he walks into a business
office his name will sound out like a bell
and all the doors will open to him! I’ve
seen it, Ben, I’ve seen it a thousand times!
You can’t feel it with your hand like tim¬
ber, but it’s there!

ben. Good-by, William.
willy. Ben, am I right? Don’t you think
I’m right? I value your advice.

ben. There’s a new continent at your
doorstep, William. You could walk out
rich. Rich! (He is gone)

willy. We’ll do it here, Ben! You hear
me? We’re gonna do it here!

(Young Bernard rushes in. The gay music
of the Boys is heard.)

Bernard. Oh, gee, I was afraid you left
already!

willy. Why? What time is it?

Bernard. It’s half-past one!

wiluy. Well, come on, everybody! Eb-
bets Field next stop! Where’s the pen¬
nants? (He rushes through the wall-line
of the \itchen and out into the living-
room)

linda (to Biff). Did you pack fresh un¬
derwear?

biff (who has been limbering up). I
Want to go!

Bernard. Biff, I’m carrying your helmet,
ain’t I?

happy. No, I’m carrying the helmet.

Bernard. Oh, Biff, you promised me.

happy. I’m carrying the helmet.

Bernard. How am I going to get in the
locker room?

linda. Let him carry the shoulder
guards. (She puts her coat and hat on m
the kitchen)

Bernard. Can I, Biff? ’Cause I told ev¬
erybody I’m going to be in the locker
room.

happy. In Ebbets Field it’s the club¬
house.

Bernard. I meant the clubhouse. Biff!

happy. Biff!

biff (grandly, after a slight pause). Let
him carry the shoulder guards.

happy (as he gives Bernard the shoulder
guards). Stay close to us now.

( Willy rushes in with the pennants.)

willy (handing them out). Everybody
wave when Biff comes out on the field.
(Happy and Bernard run off) You set
now, boy?

(The music has died away.)

BIFF. Ready to go, Pop. Every muscle is
ready.

willy (at the edge of the apron). You
realize what this means?

biff. That’s right, Pop.
willy (feeling Biff’s muscles). You’re
cornin’ home this afternoon captain of the
All-Scholastic Championship Team of the
City of New York.

biff. I got it, Pop. And remember, pal,
when I take off my helmet, that touch¬
down is for you.

willy. Let’s go! (He is starting out,
with his arm around Biff, when Charley
enters, as of old, in knickers) I got no
room for you, Charley.

charley. Room? For what?
willy. In the car.

charley. You goin’.for a ride? I wanted
to shoot some casino.

willy (furiously). Casino! (Incredu¬
lously) Don’t you realize what today is?

linda. Oh, he knows, Willy. He’s just
kidding you.

willy. That’s nothing to kid about!
charley. No, Linda, what’s goin’ on?
linda. He’s playing in Ebbets Field.
charley. Baseball in this weather?
willy. Don’t talk to him. Come on,
come on! (He is pushing them out)

charley. Wait a minute, didn’t you heat
the news?

willy. What?

charley. Don’t you listen to the radio?
Ebbets Field just blew up.

willy. You go to hell! (Charley laughs.
Pushing them out) Come on, come on!
We’re late.

charley (as they go). Knock a homer,
Biff, knock a homer!

willy (the last to leave, turning to
Charley). I don’t think that was funny,
Charley. This is the greatest day of his life.

charley. Willy, when are you going to
grow up?

willy. Yeah, heh? When this game is

over, Charley, you’ll be laughing out of
the other side of your face. They’ll be
calling him another Red Grange. Twenty-
five thousand a year.

charley (Ridding). Is that sop
willy. Yeah, that’s so.
charley. Well, then. I’m sorry, Willy.
But tell me something.
willy. What?

charley. Who is Red Grange?
willy. Put up your hands. Goddam you,
put up your hands!

(Charley, chuckling, shades his head and
walhj away, around the left corner of the
stage. Willy follows him. The music rises
to a mocking frenzy.)

willy. Who the hell do you think you
are, better than everybody else? You don’t
know everything, you big, ignorant, stu¬
pid . . . Put up your hands!

(Light rises, on the right side of the fore¬
stage, on a small table in the reception
room of Charley’s office. Traffic sounds are
heard. Bernard, now mature, sits whistling
to himself. A pair of tennis rackets and an
overnight bag are on the floor beside him.)

willy (offstage). What are you walking
away for? Don’t walk away! If you’re go¬
ing to say something say it to my face! I
know you laugh at me behind my back.
You’ll laugh out of the other side of your
goddam face after this game. Touchdown!
Touchdown! Eighty thousand people!
Touchdown! Right between the goal posts.
(Bernard is a quiet, earnest, but self-
assured young man. Willy’s voice is com¬
ing from right upstage now. Bernard low¬
ers his feet off the table and listens, fenny,
his father’s secretary, enters.)

jenny (distressed). Say, Bernard, will
you go out in the hall?

Bernard. What is that noise? Who is it?
jenny. Mr. Loman. He just got off the
elevator.

Bernard (getting up). Who’s he argu¬
ing with?

jenny. Nobody. There’s nobody with
him. I can’t deal with him any more, and
your father gets all upset everytime he
comes. I’ve got a lot of typing to do, and
your father’s waiting to sign it. Will you
see him?

willy (entering). Touchdown! Touch—
lie sees fenny) Jenny, Jenny, good to see
you. How’re ya? Workin’? Or still hon-
e':?

jenny. Fine. How’ve you been feeling?

willy. Not much any more, Jenny. Ha,
ha! (He is surprised to see the rackets)
Bernard. Hello, Uncle Willy.
willy (almost shocked). Bernard!
Well, look who’s here! (He comes quickly,
guiltily, to Bernard and warmly shakes his
hand)

Bernard. How are you? Good to see
you.

willy. What are you doing here?
Bernard. Oh, just stopped by to see
Pop. Get off my feet till my train leaves.
I’m going to Washington in a few min¬
utes.

willy. Is he in?

Bernard. Yes, he’s in his office with the
accountant. Sit down.

willy (sitting down). What’re you go¬
ing to do in Washington?

Bernard. Oh, just a case I’ve got there,
Willy.

willy. That so? (Indicating the rackets)
You going to play tennis there?

Bernard. I’m staying with a friend
who’s got a court.

willy. Don’t say. His own tennis court.
Must be fine people, I bet.

. Bernard. They are, very nice. Dad tells
me Biff’s in town.

willy (with a big smile). Yeah, Biff’s
in. Wo. king on a very big deal, Bernard.
Bernard. What’s Biff doing?
willy. Well, he’s been doing very big
things in the West. But he decided to es¬
tablish himself here. Very big. We’re hav¬
ing dinner. Did I hear your wife had a
boy?

Bernard. That’s right. Our second.
willy. Two boys! What do you know
Bernard. What kind of a deal has Bi
got?

willy. Well, Bill Oliver — very big
sporting-goods man — he wants Biff very
badly. Called him in from the West. Long
distance, carte blanche, special deliveries.
Your friends have their own private tennis
court ?

Bernard. You still with the old firm,
Willy?

willy (after a pause). I’m — I’m over¬
joyed to see how you made the grade,
Bernard, overjoyed. It’s an encouraging
thing to see a young man really — really —
Looks very good for Biff — very — (He
breaks off, then) Bernard — (He is so full
of emotion, he breaks off again)

Bernard. What is it, Willy?

25

willy (small and alone). What — what’s
the secret?

Bernard. What secret?
willy. How — how did you? Why didn’t
he ever catch on?

Bernard. I wouldn’t know that, Willy.
willy (confidentially , desperately) . You
were his friend, his boyhood friend.
There’s something I don’t understand
about it. His life ended after that Ebbets
Field game. From the age of seventeen
nothing good ever happened to him.

Bernard. He never trained himself for
anything.

willy. But he did, he did. After high
school he took so many correspondence
courses. Radio mechanics; television; God
knows what, and never made the slightest
mark.

Bernard (taking off his glasses). Willy,
do you want to talk candidly?

willy (rising, faces Bernard). I regard
you as a very brilliant man, Bernard. I
value your advice.

Bernard. Oh, the hell with the advice,
Willy. I couldn’t advise you. There’s just
one thing I’ve always wanted to ask you.
When he was supposed to graduate, and
the math teacher flunked him —

willy. Oh, that son-of-a-bitch ruined his
life.

Bernard. Yeah, but, Willy, all he had to
do was go to summer school and make up
that subject.

willy. That’s right, that’s right.

Bernard. Did you tell him not to go to
summer school?

willy. Me? I begged him to go. I or¬
dered him to go!

Bernard. Then why wouldn’t he go? —
willy. Why? Why! Bernard, that ques¬
tion has been trailing me like a ghost for
the last fifteen years. He flunked the sub¬
ject, and laid down and died like a ham¬
mer hit him!

Bernard. Take it easy, kid.
willy. Let me talk to you — I got no¬
body to talk to. Bernard, Bernard, was it
my fault? Y’see? It keeps going around
in my mind, maybe I did something to
him. I got nothing to give him.

Bernard. Don’t take it so hard.
willy. Why did he lay down? What is
the story there? You were his friend!

Bernard. Willy, I remember, it was
June, and our grades came out. And he’d
flunked math.

willy. That son-of-a-bitch!

Bernard. No, it wasn’t right then. Biff
just got very angry, I remember, and he
was ready to enroll in summer school.
willy (surprised). He was?

Bernard. He wasn’t beaten by it at all.
But then, Willy, he disappeared from the
block for almost a month. And I got the
idea that he’d gone up to New England
to see you. Did he have a talk with you
then?

(Willy stares in silence.)

BERNARD. Willy?

willy (with a strong edge of resent¬
ment in his voice). Yeah, he came to Bos¬
ton. What about it?

Bernard. Well, just that when he came
back — I’ll never forget this, it always mys¬
tifies me. Because I’d thought so well of
Biff, even though he’d always taken ad¬
vantage of me. I loved him, Willy,
y’know? And he came back after that
month and took his sneakers — remember
those sneakers with “University of Vir¬
ginia” printed on them? He was so proud
of those, wore them every day. And he
took them down in the cellar, and burned
them up in the furnace. We had a fist
fight. It lasted at least half an hour. Just
the two of us, punching each other down
the cellar, and crying right through it.
I’ve often thought of how strange it was
that I knew he’d given up his life. What
happened in Boston, Willy?

( Willy looks at him as at an intruder.)

Bernard. I just bring it up because you
asked me.

willy (angrily). Nothing. What do you
mean, “What happened?” What’s that got
to do with anything?

Bernard. Well, don’t get sore.
willy. What are you trying to do, blame
it on me? If a boy lays down is that my
fault?

Bernard. Now, Willy, don’t get —
willy. Well, don’t — don’t talk to me
that way! What does that mean, “What
happened ? ”

(Charley enters. He is in his vest, and he
carries a bottle of bourbon.)

charley. Hey, you’re going to miss that
train. (He waves the bottle)

Bernard. Yeah, I’m going. (He takes
the bottle) Thanks, Pop. (He picks up his
rackets and bag) Good-by, Willy, and
don’t worry about it. You know, “If at
first you don’t succeed . . .”

willy. Yes, I believe in that.

Bernard. But sometimes, Willy, it’s bet¬
ter for a man just to walk away.
willy. Walk away?

Bernard. That’s right.
willy. But if you can’t walk away?
Bernard ( after a sltght pause). I guess
that’s when it’s tough. {Extending his
hand) Good-by, Willy.

willy {shading Bernard’s hand). Good-
by, boy.

charley {an arm on Bernard’s shoul¬
der). How do you like this kid? Gonna
argue a case in front of the Supreme
Court.

Bernard {protesting). Pop!
willy {genuinely shocked, pained and
happy). No! The Supreme Court!
BERNARD. I gotta run. ’By, Dad!
CHARLEY. Knock ’em dead, Bernard!
{Bernard goes off.)

willy {as Charley ta\es out his wallet).
The Supreme Court! And he didn’t even
mention it!

charley {counting out money on the
des\). He don’t have to — he’s gonna do it.

willy. And you never told him what
to do, did you? You never took any in¬
terest in him.

charley. My salvation is that I never
took any interest in anything. There’s
some money — fifty dollars. I got an ac¬
countant inside.

willy. Charley, look . . . {W ith dif¬
ficulty) I got my insurance to pay. If you
can manage it — I need a hundred and ten
dollars.

{Charley doesn’t reply for a moment;
merely stops moving.)

willy. I’d draw it from my bank, but
Linda would know, and I . . .
charley. Sit down, Willy.
willy {moving toward the chair). I’m
keeping an account of everything, remem¬
ber. I’ll pay every penny back. {He sits)
CHARLEY. Now listen to me, Willy.
willy. I want you to know I appre¬
ciate . . .

charley {sitting down on the table).
Willy, what’re you doin’? What the hell is
goin’ on in your head?

willy. Why? I’m simply . . .
charley. I offered you a job. You can
make fifty dollars a week. And I won’t
send you on the road.
willy. I’ve got a job.
charley. Without pay? What kind of a

job is a job without pay? {He rises) Now,
look, kid, enough is enough. I’m no genius
but I know when I’m being insulted.
willy. Insulted!

charley. Why don’t you want to work
for me?

willy. What’s the matter with you?
I’ve got a job.

charley. Then what’re you walkin’ in
here every week for?

willy {getting up). Well, if you don t
want me to walk in here —

charley. I am offering you a job.
willy. I don’t want your goddam job!
charley. When the hell are you going
to grow up?

willy {furiously). You big ignoramus,
if you say that to me again I’ll rap you
one! I don’t care how big you are! {He’s
ready to fight)

{Pause.)

charley {\indly, going to him). How
much do you need, Willy?

willy. Charley, I’m strapped, I’m
strapped. I don’t know what to do. I was
just fired.

charley. Howard fired you?
willy. That snotnose. Imagine that? I
named him. I named him Howard.

charley. Willy, when’re.you gonna re¬
alize that them things don’t mean any¬
thing? You named him Howard, but you
can’t sell that. The only thing you got in
this world is what you can sell. And the
funny thing is that you’re a salesman, and
you don’t know that.

willy. I’ve always tried to think other¬
wise, I guess. I always felt that if a man
was impressive, and well liked, that noth¬
ing—

charley. Why must everybody like
you? Who liked J. P. Morgan? Was he
impressive? In a Turkish bath he’d look
like a butcher. But with his pockets on he
was very well liked. Now listen, Willy, I
know you don’t like me, and nobody can
say I’m in love with you, but I’ll give you
a job because — just for the hell of it, put
it that way. Now what do you say?

willy. I — I just can’t work for you,
Charley.

CHARLEY. What’re you, jealous of me?
willy. I can’t work for you, that’s all,
don’t ask me why.

charley {angered, ta\es out more bills).
You been jealous of me all your life, you
damned fool! Here, pay your insurance

{He puts the money in Willy’s hand)
willy. I’m keeping strict accounts.
charley. I’ve got some work to do.
Take care of yourself. And pay your in¬
surance.

willy {moving to the right). Funny,
y’know? After all the highways, and the
trains, and the appointments, and the
years, you end up worth more dead than
alive.

charley. Willy, nobody’s worth nothin’
dead. {After a slight pause) Did you hear
what I said?

( Willy stands still, dreaming.)

CHARLEY. Willy!

willy. Apologize to Bernard for me
when you see him. I didn’t mean to argue
with him. He’s a fine boy. They’re all fine
boys, and they’ll end up big — all of them.
Someday they’ll all play tennis together.
Wish me luck, Charley, fie saw Bill
Oliver today.

CHARLEY. Good luck.
willy {on the verge of tears). Charley,
you’re the only friend I got. Isn’t that a
remarkable thing? {He goes out)

4 CHARLEY. Jesus!

^ Charley stares after him a moment and
follows. All light blacfis out. Suddenly
raucous music is heard, and a red glow
rises behind the screen at right. Stanley, a
young waiter, appears, carrying a table,
followed by Happy, who is carrying two
chairs

Stanley {putting the table down).
That’s all right, Mr. Loman. I can handle
it myself. {He turns and ta\es the chairs
from Happy and places them at the table )
happy {glancing around). Oh, this is
better.

Stanley. Sure, in the front there you’re
in the middle of all kinds of noise. When¬
ever you got a party, Mr. Loman, you just
tell me and I’ll put you back here.
Y’know, there’s a lotta people they don’t
like it private, because when they go out
they like to see a lotta action around them
because they’re sick and tired to stay in
the house by theirself. But I know you,
you ain’t from Hackensack. You know
what I mean?

happy {sitting down). So how’s it com¬
ing, Stanley?

Stanley. Ah, it’s a dog’s life. I only
wish during the war they’d a took me in
the Army. I coulda been dead by now.
happy. My brother’s hark. Stanley.

Stanley. Oh, he come back, heh? From
the Far West.

happy. Yeah, big cattle man, my
brother, so treat him right. And my
father’s coming too.

Stanley. Oh, your father too!
happy. You got a couple of nice lob¬
sters?

Stanley. Hundred per cent, big.
happy. I want them with the claws.
Stanley. Don’t worry, I don’t give you
no mice. {Happy laughs) How about
some wine? It’ll put a head on the meal.

happy. No. You remember, Stanley, that
recipe I brought you from overseas? With
the champagne in it?

Stanley. Oh, yeah, sure. I still got it
tacked up yet in the kitchen. But that 11
have to cost a buck apiece anyways.
happy. That’s all right.

Stanley. What’d you, hit a number or
somethin’?

happy. No, it’s a little celebration. My
brother is — I think he pulled off a big deal
today. I think we’re going into business
together.

Stanley. Great! That’s the best for you.
Because a family business, you know what
I mean? — that’s the best.
happy. That’s what I think.

Stanley. ’Cause what’s the difference?
Somebody steals? It’s in the family. Know
what I mean? {Sotto voce) Like this bar¬
tender here. The boss is goin’ crazy what
kinda leak he’s got in the cash register.
You put it in but it don’t come out.
happy {raising his head). Sh!

STANLEY. What?

happy. You notice I wasn’t lookin’ right
or left, was I?

STANLEY. No.

happy. And my eyes are closed.
Stanley. So what’s the — ?
happy. Strudel’s cornin’.

Stanley {catching on, loofis around).
Ah, no, there’s no —

{He breaks off as a furred, lavishly
dressed girl enters and sits at the next
table. Both follow her with their eyes.)
Stanley. Geez, how’d ya know?
happy. I got radar or something. {Star¬
ing directly at her profile) Oooooooo . . -
Stanley.

Stanley. I think that’s for you, Mr.
Loman.

happy. Look at that mouth. Oh, God.
And the binoculars.

26

Stanley. Geez, you got a life, Mr. Lo-
man.

happy. Wait on her.

Stanley ( going to the girl’s table).
Would you like a menu, ma’am?

girl.. I’m expecting someone, but I’d
like a —

happy. Why don’t you bring her — ex¬
cuse me, miss, do you mind? I sell cham¬
pagne, and I’d like you to try my brand.
Bring her a champagne, Stanley.
girl. That’s awfully nice of you.
happy. Don’t mention it. It’s all com¬
pany money. {He laughs)

girl. That’s a charming product to be
selling, isn't it?

happy. Oh, gets to be like everything
else. Selling is selling, y’know.
girl. I suppose.

happy. You don’t happen to sell, do
you?

cirl. No, I don’t sell.
happy. Would you object to a compli¬
ment from a stranger? You ought to be
on a magazine cover.

girl {looking at him a little archly). I
have been.

{Stanley comes in with a glass of cham¬
pagne.)

happy. What’d I say before, Stanley?
You see? She’s a cover girl.

Stanley. Oh, I could see, I could see.
happy {to the Girl). What magazine?
girl. Oh, a lot of them. {She ta\es the
drink) Thank you.

happy. You know what they say in
France, don’t you? “Champagne is the
drink of the complexion” — Hya, Biff!

{Biff has entered and sits with Happy.)
biff. Hello, kid. Sorry I’m late.
happy. I just got here. Uh, Miss — ?
girl. Forsythe.

happy. Miss Forsythe, this is my brother.
biff. Is Dad here?

happy. His name is Biff. You might ve
heard of him. Great football player.
girl. Really? What team?
happy. Are you familiar with football?
girl. No, I’m afraid I’m not.
happy. Biff is quarterback with the New
York Giants.

girl. Well, that is nice, isn’t it? {She

drinps)

Happy. Good health.

girl. I’m happy to meet you.

happy. That’s my name. Hap. It’s re¬

ally Harold, but at West Point they called
me Happy.

girl {now really impressed) . Oh, I see.
How do you do? {She turns her profile)
biff. Isn’t Dad coming?
happy. You want her?
biff. Oh, I could never make that.
happy. I remember the time that idea
would never come into your head. Where’s
the old confidence, Biff?
biff. I just saw Oliver —
happy. Wait a minute. I’ve got to see
that old confidence again. Do you want
her? She’s on call.

biff. Oh, no. {He turns to look at the
Girl)

happy. I’m telling you. Watch this.
{Turning to the Girl) Honey? {She turns
to him) Are you busy?

girl. Well, I am ... but I could make
a phone call.

happy. Do that, will you, honey? And
see if you can get a friend. We’ll be here
for a while. Biff is one of the greatest foot¬
ball players in the country.

girl {standing up). Well, I’m certainly
happy to meet you.

happy. Come back soon.
girl. I’ll try.

happy. Don’t try, honey, try hard.

{The Girl exits. Stanley follows, shaking
his head in bewildered admiration.)

happy. Isn’t that a shame now? A beau¬
tiful girl like that? That’s why I can’t get
married. There’s not a good woman in a
thousand. New York is loaded with them,
kid!

biff. Hap, look —
happy. I told you she was on call!
biff {strangely unnerved) . Cut it out,
will ya? I want to say something to you.
happy. Did you see Oliver?
biff. I saw him all right. Now look, I
want to tell Dad a couple of things and I
want you to help me.

happy. What? Is he going to back you?
biff. Are you crazy? You’re out of your
goddam head, you know that?
happy. Why? What happened i
biff {breathlessly) . I did a terrible
thing today, Hap. It’s been the strangest
day I ever went through. I’m all numb, I
swear.

happy. You mean he wouldn’t see you?
biff. Well, I waited six hours for him,
see? All day. Kept sending my name in.

Even tried to date his secretary so she’d
get me to him, but no soap.

happy. Because you’re not showin’ the
old confidence, Biff. He remembered you,
didn’t he?

biff {stopping Happy with a gesture).
Finally, about five o’clock, he comes out.
Didn’t remember who I was or anything.

I felt like such an idiot, Hap.

happy. Did you tell him my Florida
idea ?

biff. He walked away. I saw him for
one minute. I got so mad I could’ve torn
the walls down! How the hell did I ever
get the idea I was a salesman there? I
even believed myself that I’d been a sales¬
man for him! And then he gave me one
look and— I realized what a ridiculous lie
my whole life has been! We’ve been talk¬
ing in a dream for fifteen years. I was a
shipping clerk.

happy. What’d you do?
biff {with great tension and wonder).
Well, he left, see. And the secretary went
out. I was all alone in the waiting-room.

I don’t know what came over me, Hap.
The next thing I know I’m in his office
paneled walls, everything. I can’t explain
it. I — Hap, I took his fountain pen.
happy. Geez, did he catch you?
biff. I ran out. I ran down all eleven
flights. I ran and ran and ran.

happy. That was an awful dumb —
what’d you do that for?

biff {agonized) . I don’t know, I just
wanted to take something, I don’t know.
You gotta help me, Hap, I’m gonna tell
Pop.

happy. You crazy? What for?

BIFF. Hap, he’s got to understand that
m not the man somebody lends that kind
of money to. He thinks I ve been spiting
him all these years and it’s eating him up.

happy. That’s just it. You tell him
something nice.
biff. I can’t.

happy. Say you got a lunch date with
Oliver tomorrow.

biff. So what do I do tomorrow?
fiappy. You leave the house tomorrow
and come back at night and say Oliver is
thinking it over. And he thinks it over for
a couple of weeks, and gradually it fades
away and nobody’s the worse.
biff. But it’ll go on forever!
happy. Dad is never so happy as when
he’s looking forward to something!

{Willy enters.)

happy. Hello, scout!

willy. Gee, I haven’t been here in years!
{Stanley has followed Willy in and sets a
chair for him. Stanley starts off but Happy
stops him.)

happy. Stanley!

{Stanley stands by, waiting for an orderf)
biff {going to Willy with guilt, as to an
invalid). Sit down, Pop. You want a
drink?

WILLY. Sure, I don’t mind.
biff. Let’s get a load on.
willy. You look worried.
biff. N-no. (To Stanley) Scotch all
around. Make it doubles.

Stanley. Doubles, right. {He goes)
WILLY. You had a couple already, didn’t
you?

biff. Just a couple, yeah.

WILLY. Well, what happened, boy?
{Nodding affirmatively , with a smile)
Everything go all right?

biff {takes a breath, then reaches out
and grasps Willy’s hand). Pal . . . {He is
smiling bravely, and Willy is smiling too)

I had an experience today.
happy. Terrific, Pop.

WILLY. That so? What happened?
biff {high, slightly alcoholic, above the
earth). I’m going to tell you everything
from first to last. It’s been a strange day.
{Silence. He looks around, composes him¬
self as best he can, but his breath keeps
breaking the rhythm of his voice) I had
to wait quite a while for him, and—
willy. Oliver?

BIFF. Yeah, Oliver. All day, as a matter
of cold fact. And a lot of — instances —
facts, Pop, facts about my life came back
to me. Who was it, Pop? Who ever said I
was a salesman with Oliver?
willy. Well, you were.
biff. No, Dad, I was a shipping clerk.
willy. But you were practically —
biff {with determination). Dad, I don’t
know who said it first, but I was never a
salesman for Bill Oliver.

willy. What’re you talking about?
biff. Let’s hold on to the facts tonight,
Pop. We’re not going to get anywhere
bullin’ around. I was a shipping clerk.

willy {angrily). All right, now listen to
me —

BIFF. Why don’t you let me finish?
willy. I’m not interested in stories
about the past or any crap of that kind

because the woods are burning, boys, you
understand? There’s a big blaze going on
all around. I was fired today.

biff (shocked). How could you be?
willy. I was fired, and I’m looking for
a little good news to tell your mother, be¬
cause the woman has waited and the
woman has suffered. The gist of it is that
I haven’t got a story left in my head, Biff.
So don’t give me a lecture about facts and
aspects. I am not interested. Now what’ve
you got to say to me?

(, Stanley enters with three drin\s. They
wait until he leaves .)

willy. Did you see Oliver?
biff. Jesus, Dad!

willy. You mean you didn’t go up
there?

happy. Sure he went up there.
biff. I did. I — saw him. How could they
fire you?

willy (on the edge of his chair). What
kind of a welcome did he give you?

biff. He won’t even let you work on
commission?

willy. I’m out! ( Driving ) So tell me,
he gave you a warm welcome?
happy. Sure, Pop, sure!
biff ( driven) . Well, it was kind of
willy. I was wondering if he’d remem¬
ber you. (To Happy) Imagine, man
doesn’t see him for ten, twelve years and
gives him that kind of a welcome!
happy. Damn right!
biff ( trying to return to the offensive).
Pop, look —

willy. You know why he remembered
you, don’t you? Eecause you impressed
him in those days.

biff. Let’s talk quietly and get this
down to the facts, huh?

willy (as though Biff had been inter¬
rupting). Well, what happened? It’s great
news, Biff. Did he take you into his office
or’d you talk in the waiting-room?
biff. Well, he came in, see, and —
willy ( with a big smile). What’d he
say? Betcha he threw his arm around you.
biff. Well, he kinda —
willy. He’s a fine man. (To Happy)
Very hard man to see, y’know.
happy (agreeing). Oh, I know.
willy (to Biff). Is that where you had
the drinks?

biff. Yeah, he gave me a couple of — no,
no!

happy (cutting in). He told him my
Florida idea.

willy. Don’t interrupt. (To Biff)
How’d he react to the Florida idea?

biff. Dad, will you give me a minute to
explain?

willy. I’ve been waiting for you to ex¬
plain since I sat down here! What hap¬
pened? He took you into his office an-d
what?

biff. Well — I talked. And — and he lis¬
tened, see.

willy. Famous for the way he listens,
y’know. What was his answer?

biff. His answer was — (He breaks off,
suddenly angry) Dad, you’re not letting
me tell you what I want to tell you!

willy (accusing, angered). You didn’t
see him, did you?
biff. I did see him!
willy. What’d you insult him or some¬
thing? You insulted him, didn’t you?

biff. Listen, will you let me out of it,
will you just let me out of it!
happy. What the hell!
willy. Tell me what happened!
biff (to Happy). I can’t talk to him!

(A single trumpet note jars the ear. The
light of green leaves stains the house,
which holds the air of night and a dream.
Young Bernard enters and knocks on
door of the house.)

young Bernard (frantically). Mrs. Lo-
man, Mrs. Loman!

happy. Tell him what happened!
biff (to Happy). Shut up and leave me
alone!

willy. No, no! You had to go and flunk

math!

biff. What math? What’re you talking
about?

young Bernard. Mrs. Loman, Mrs. Lo¬
man!

(Linda appears in the house, as of old.)
willy (wildly). Math, math, math!
biff. Take it easy, Pop!
young Bernard. Mrs. Loman!
willy (furiously). If you hadn’t flunked
you’d’ve been set by now!

biff. Now, look, I’m gonna tell you
what happened, and you’re going to listen

to me.

young Bernard. Mrs. Loman!
biff. I waited six hours — -
happy. What the hell are you saying?
biff. I kept sending in my name but he
wouldn’t see me. So finally he ... (He

continues unheard as light fades low on
the restaurant)

YOUNG BERNARD. Biff flunked math!

LINDA. No!

young Bernard. Birnbaum flunked him!
They won’t graduate him!

linda. But they have to. He’s gotta go
to the university. Where is he? Biff! Biff!

young Bernard. No, he left. He went to
Grand Central.

LINDA. Grand— You mean he went to
Boston!

young Bernard. Is Uncle Willy in Bos¬
ton?

linda. Oh, maybe Willy can talk to the
teacher. Oh, the poor, poor boy!

(Light on house area snaps out.)

biff (at the table, now audible, holding
up a gold fountain pen). ... so I’m
washed up with Oliver, you understand?
Are you listening to me?

willy (at a loss). Yeah, sure. If you
hadn’t flunked —

biff. Flunked what? What’re you talk¬
ing about?

willy. Don’t blame everything on me!

I didn’t flunk math — you did! What pen?

happy. That was awful dumb, Biff, a
pen like that is worth —

willy (seeing the pen for the first
time). You took Oliver’s pen?

biff (weakening). Dad, I just explained
it to you.

willy. You stole Bill Oliver’s fountain
pen!

biff. I didn’t exactly steal it! That’s just
what I’ve been explaining to you!

happy. He had it in his hand and just
then Oliver walked in, so he got nervous
and stuck it in his pocket!
willy. My God, Biff!
biff. I never intended to do it, Dad!
operator’s voice. Standish Arms, good
evening!

willy (shouting). I’m not in my room!
biff (frightened). Dad, whats the mat¬
ter? (He and Happy stand up)

operator. Ringing Mr. Loman for you!
willy. I’m not there, stop it! ,
biff (horrified , gets down on one k^ee
before Willy). Dad, Ill make good, Ill
make good. (Willy tries to get to his feet.
Biff holds him down) Sit down now.

willy. No, you’re no good, you’re no
good for anything.

biff. I am, Dad, I’ll find something else,
you understand? Now don t worry about

anything. (He holds up Willy’s face) Talk
to me, Dad.

operator. Mr. Loman does not answer.
Shall I page him?

willy ( attempting to stand, as though
to rush and silence the Operator). No, no,
no!

happy. He’ll strike something, Pop.
willy. No, no . . .

biff (desperately, standing over Willy).
Pop, listen! Listen to me! I’m telling you
something good. Oliver talked to his part¬
ner about the Florida idea. You listening?
He — he talked to his partner, and he came
to me . . . I’m going to be all right, you
hear? Dad, listen to me, he said it was
just a question of the amount!
willy. Then you . . . got it?
happy. He’s gonna be terrific, Pop!
willy (trying to stand). Then you got
it, haven’t you? You got it! You got it!

biff (agonized, holds Willy down). No,
no. Look, Pop, I’m supposed to have lunch
with them tomorrow. I’m just telling you
this so you’ll know that I can still make
-an impression, Pop. And I’ll make good
somewhere, but I can’t go tomorrow, see?
willy. Why not? You simply —
biff. But the pen, Pop!
willy. You give it to him and tell him
it was an oversight!

happy. Sure, have lunch tomorrow!
biff. I can’t say that —
willy. You were doing a crossword
puzzle and accidentally used his pen!

biff. Listen, kid, I took those balls years
ago, now I walk in with his fountain pen?
That clinches it, don’t you see? I can’t
face him like that! I’ll try elsewhere.
page’s voice. Paging Mr. Loman!
willy. Don’t you want to be anything?
biff. Pop, how can I go back?
willy. You don’t want to be anything,
is that what’s behind it?

biff (now angry at Willy for not credit¬
ing his sympathy). Don’t take it that way!
You think it was easy walking into that
office after what I’d done to him? A team
of horses couldn’t have dragged me back
to Bill Oliver!

willy. Then why’d you go?
biff. Why did I go? Why did I go!
Look at you! Look at what’s become of
you!

(Off left, The Woman laughs.)

willy. Biff, you’re going to go to that
lunch tomorrow, or —

28

biff. I can’t go. I’ve got no appoint¬
ment!

happy. Biff, for . . . !
willy. Are you spiting me?
biff. Don’t take it that way! Goddam¬
mit!

willy ( strikes Biff and falters away
from the table). You rotten little louse!
Are you spiting me?

the woman. Someone’s at the door,
Willy!

biff. I’m no good, can’t you see what I
am?

happy ( separating them). Hey, you’re
in a restaurant! Now cut it out, both of
you! ( The girls enter) Hello, girls, sit
down.

( The Woman laughs, off left.)

miss forsythe. I guess we might as well.
This is Letta.

the woman. Willy, are you going to
wake up?

biff ( ignoring Willy). How’re ya, miss,
sit down. What do you drink?

miss forsythe. Letta might not be able
to stay long.

letta. I gotta get up very early tomor¬
row. I got jury duty. I’m so excited! Were
you fellows ever on a jury?

biff. No, but I been in front of them!
( The girls laugh) This is my father.

letta. Isn’t he cute? Sit down with us,
Pop.

happy. Sit him down, Biff!
biff ( going to him). Come on, slugger,
drink us under the table. To hell with it!
Come on, sit down, pal.

(On Biff’s last insistence, Willy is about
to sit.)

the woman (now urgently). Willy, are
you going to answer the door!

(The Woman’s call pulls Willy bac\. He
starts right, befuddled.)

biff. Hey, where are you going?
willy. Open the door.
biff. The door?

willy. The washroom . . . the door . . .
where’s the door?

biff (leading Willy to the left). Just go
straight down.

(Willy moves left.)

the woman. Willy, Willy, are you going
to get up, get up, get up, get up?

(Willy exits left.)

letta. I think it’s sweet you bring your
daddy along.

miss forsythe. Oh, he isn’t really your
father!

biff (at left, turning to her resentfully).
Miss Forsythe, you’ve just seen a prince
walk by. A fine, troubled prince. A hard¬
working, unappreciated prince. A pal, you
understand? A good companion. Always
for his boys.

letta. That’s so sweet.
happy. Well, girls, what’s the program?
We’re wasting time. Come on, Biff. Gather
round. Where would you like to go?

biff. Why don’t you do something for
him?

happy. Me!

biff. Don’t you give a damn for him,
Hap?

happy. What’re you talking about? I’m
the one who—

biff. I sense it, you don’t give a good
goddam about him. (He takes the rolled-
up hose from his pocket and puts it on the
table in front of Happy) Look what I
found in the cellar, for Christ’s sake. How
can you bear to let it go on?

happy. Me? Who goes away? Who^runs
off and —

biff. Yeah, but he doesn’t mean any¬
thing to you. You could help him — I
can’t! Don’t you understand what I’m
talking about? He’s going to kill himself,
don’t you know that?

happy. Don’t I know it! Me!
biff. Hap, help him! Jesus . . . help him
. . . Help me, help me, I can’t bear to look
at his face! (Ready to weep, he hurries
out, up right)

happy (staring after him). Where are
you going?

miss forsythe. What’s he so mad about?
happy. Come on, girls, we’ll catch up
with him.

miss forsythe (as Happy pushes her
out). Say, I don’t like that temper of his!

happy. He’s just a little overstrung, he’ll
be all right!

willy (off left, as The Woman laughs).
Don’t answer! Don’t answer!

letta. Don’t you want to tell your
father —

happy. No, that’s not my father. He’s
just a guy. Come on, we’ll catch Biff, and,
honey, we’re going to paint this town!
Stanley, where’s the check! Hey, Stanley!
(They exit. Stanley looks toward left.)

Stanley (calling to Happy indignantly).
Mr. Loman! Mr. LomanI

(Stanley picks up a chair and follows
them off. Knocking is heard off left. The
Woman enters, laughing. Willy follows
her. She is in a black slip', he is buttoning
his shirt. Raw, sensuous music accom¬
panies their speech.)

willy. Will you stop laughing? Will
you stop?

the woman. Aren’t you going to answer
the door? He’ll wake the whole hotel.
willy. I’m not expecting anybody.
the woman. Whyn’t you have another
drink, honey, and stop being so damn self-
centered?

willy. I’m so lonely.
the woman. You know you ruined me,
Willy? From now on, whenever you come
to the office. I’ll see that you go right
through to the buyers. No waiting at my
desk any more, Willy. You ruined me.
willy. That’s nice of you to say that.
the woman. Gee, you are self-centered!
Why so sad? You are the saddest, self-
centeredest soul I ever did see-saw. (She
laughs. He kisses her) Come on inside,
drummer boy. It’s silly to be dressing in
the middle of the night. (As knocklnE *s
heard) Aren’t you going to answer the
door?

willy. They’re knocking on the wrong
door.

the woman. But I felt the knocking.
And he heard us talking in here. Maybe
the hotel’s on fire!

willy (his terror rising). It’s a mistake.
the woman. Then tell him to go away!
willy. There’s nobody there.
the woman. It’s getting on my nerves,
Willy. There’s somebody standing out
there and it’s getting on my nerves!

willy (pushing her away from him).
All right, stay in the bathroom here, and
don’t come out. I think there’s a law in
Massachusetts about it, so don’t come out.
It may be that new room clerk. He looked
very mean. So don’t come out. It’s a mis¬
take, there’s no fire.

(The knocking is heard again. He takes a
few steps away from her, and she vanishes
into the wing. The light follows him, and
now he is facing Young Biff, who carries
a suitcase. Biff steps toward him. The
music is gone.)

biff. Why didn’t you answer?
willy. Biff! What are you doing in Bos¬
ton?

biff. Why didn’t you answer? I’ve been

knocking for five minutes, I called you on
the phone —

willy. I just heard you. I was in the
bathroom and had the door shut. Did any¬
thing happen home?

biff. Dad — I let you down.
willy. What do you mean?
biff. Dad . . .

willy. Biffo, what’s this about? (Put¬
ting his arm around Biff) Come on, let’s
go downstairs and get you a malted.
biff. Dad, I flunked math.
willy. Not for the term?
biff. The term. I haven’t got enough
credits to graduate.

willy. You mean to say Bernard would¬
n’t give you the answers?

biff. He did, he tried, but I only got a
sixty-one.

willy. And they wouldn’t give you four
points ?

biff. Birnbaum refused absolutely. I
begged him, Pop, but he won’t give me
those points. You gotta talk to him before
they close the school. Because if he saw the
kind of man you are, and you just talked
to him in your way, I’m sure he’d come
through for me. The class came right be¬
fore practice, see, and I didn’t go enough.
Would you talk to him? He’d like you,
Pop. You know the way you could talk.

willy. You’re on. We’ll drive right
back.

biff. Oh, Dad, good work! I’m sure
he’ll change it for you!

willy. Go downstairs and tell the clerk
I’m checkin’ out. Go right down.

biff. Yes, sir! See, the reason he hates
me, Pop- — one day he was late for class so
I got up at the blackboard and imitated
him. I crossed my eyes and talked with a
lithp.

willy (laughing). You did? The kids
like it?

biff. They nearly died laughing.
willy. Yeah? What’d you do?
biff. The thquare root of thixthy twee
is . . . (Willy bursts out laughing; Biff
joins him) And in the middle of it he
walked in!

(Willy laughs and The Woman joins in
offstage.)

willy (without hesitation). Hurry
downstairs and—

biff. Somebody in there?
willy. No, that was next door.

(The Woman laughs offstage.)

29

Can I come in? There’s something in the bathtub, Willy, and it’s moving

biff. Somebody got in your bathroom!
willy. No, it’s the next room, there’s a
party—

the woman ( enters , laughing. She lisps
this). Can I come in? There’s something
in the bathtub, Willy, and it’s moving!

( Willy looks at Biff, who is staring open-
mouthed and horrified at The Woman.)

willy. Ah — you better go back to your
room. They must be finished painting by
now. They’re painting her room so I let
her take a shower here. Go back, go
back . . . (He pushes her)

the woman (resisting). But I’ve got to
get dressed, Willy, I can’t —

willy. Get out of here! Go back, go
back . . . (Suddenly striving for the ordi¬
nary) This is Miss Francis, Biff, she’s a
buyer. They’re painting her room. Go
back, Miss Francis, go back . . .

the woman. But my clothes, I can’t go
out naked in the hall!

willy (pushing her offstage). Get outa
here! Go back, go back!

(Biff slowly sits down on his suitcase as
the argument continues offstage.)

the woman. Where’s my stockings?
You promised me stockings, Willy!
willy. I have no stockings here!
the woman. You had two boxes of size
nine sheers for me, and I want them!

willy. Here, for God’s sake, will you
get outa here!

the woman (enters holding a box of
stockings). I just hope there’s nobody in
the hall. That’s all I hope. (To Biff) Are
you football or baseball?
biff. Football.

the woman (angry, humiliated). Thats
me too. G’night. (She snatches her clothes
from Willy, and wal\s out)

willy (after a pause). Well, better get
going. I want to get to the school first
thing in the morning. Get my suits out of
the closet. I’ll get my valises. (Biff doesn’t
move) What’s the matter? (Biff re¬
mains motionless, tears falling) She’s
a buyer. Buys for ]. H. Simmons. She
lives down the hall — they’re painting.
You don’t imagine — (He breads off.
After a pause) Now listen, pal, she’s
just a buyer. She sees merchandise in her
room and they have to keep it looking just
so . . . (Pause. Assuming command) All
right, get my suits. (Biff doesn’t move)
Now stop crying and do as I say. I gave
you an order. Biff, I gave you an order! Is

that what you do when I give you an
order? How dare you cry! (Putting his
arm around Biff) Now look, Biff, when
you grow up you’ll understand about these
things. You mustn’t — you mustn’t over¬
emphasize a thing like this. I’ll see Birn-
baum first thing in the morning.
biff. Never mind.

willy (getting down beside Biff). Nev¬
er mind! He’s going to give you those
points. I’ll see to it.

biff. He wouldn’t listen to you.
willy. He certainly will listen to me.
You need those points for the U. of Vir¬
ginia.

biff. I’m not going there.

WILLY. Heh? If I can’t get him to
change that mark you’ll make it up in
summer school. You’ve got all summer
to —

biff (his weeping breaking from him).
Dad . . .

willy (infected by it). Oh, my boy . . .
biff. Dad . . .

willy. She’s nothing to me, Biff. I was
lonely, I was terribly lonely.

biff. You — you gave her Mama’s stock¬
ings! (His tears brea\ through and he rises
to go)

willy (grabbing for Biff). I gave you an
order!

biff. Don’t touch me, you — liar!
willy. Apologize for that!
biff. You fake! You phony little fake!
You fake! (Overcome, he turns quic\ly
and weeping fully goes out with his suit¬
case. Willy is left on the floor on his
\nees)

willy. I gave you an order! Biff, come
back here or I’ll beat you! Come back
here! I’ll whip you!

(Stanley comes quickly in from the right
and stands in front of Willy.)

willy (shouts at Stanley). I gave you an
order . . .

Stanley. Hey, let’s pick it up, pick it up,
Mr. Loman. (He helps Willy to his feet)
Your boys left with the chippies. They
said they’ll see you home.

(A second waiter watches some distance
away.)

willy. But we were supposed to have
dinner together.

(Music is heard, Willy’s theme.)

Stanley. Can you make it?

willy. I’ll — sure, I can make it. (Sud-

30

denly concerned about his clothes) Do I—

I look all right?

Stanley. Sure, you look all right. (He
flickj a speck off Willy’s lapel)

willy. Here — here’s a dollar.

Stanley. Oh, your son paid me. It’s all
right.

willy (putting it in Stanley’s hand).
No, take it. You’re a good boy.

Stanley. Oh, no, you don’t have to . . .

willy. Here — here’s some more, I don’t
need it any more. (After a slight pause)
Tell me — is there a seed store in the neigh¬
borhood?

Stanley. Seeds? You mean like to plant?
(As Willy turns, Stanley slips the money
back into his jacket pocket.)

willy. Yes. Carrots, peas . . .

STANLEY. Well, there’s hardware stores
on Sixth Avenue, but it may be too late
now.

willy (anxiously). Oh, I’d better hurry.
I’ve got to get some seeds. (He starts off
to the right) I’ve got to get some seeds,
right away. Nothing’s planted. I don’t
have a thing in the ground.

5_

^ Willy hurries out as the light goes down.
Stanley moves over to the right after him,
watches him off. The other waiter has
been staring ai Willy.

(The waiter picks up the chairs and moves
off right. Stanley takes the table and fol¬
lows him. The light fades on this area.
There is a long pause, the sound of the
flute coming over. The light gradually
rises on the kitchen, which is empty.
Happy appears at the door of the house,
followed by Biff. Happy is carrying a large
bunch of long-stemmed roses. He enters
the kitchen, looks around for Linda. Not
seeing her, he turns to Biff, who is just
outside the house door, and makes a ges¬
ture with his hands, indicating “Not here,
/ guess." He looks into the living-room
and freezes. Inside, Linda, unseen, is
seated, Willy’s coat on her lap. She rises
ominously and quietly and moves toward
Happy, who backs up into the kitchen,
afraid.)

happy'. Hey, what’re you doing up?
(Linda says nothing but moves toward
him implacably) Where’s Pop? (He keeps
backing to the right, and now Linda is in
full view in the doorway to the living-
room) Is he sleeping?

linda. Where were you?
happy (trying to laugh it off). We met
two girls, Mom, very fine types. Here, we
brought you some flowers. (Offering them
to her) Put them in your room, Ma.

(She knocks them to the floor at Biff’s
feet. He has now come inside and closed
the door behind him. She stares at Biff,
silent.)

happy. Now what’d you do that for?
Mom, I want you to have some flowers —
linda (cutting Happy off , violently to
Biff). Don’t you care whether he lives or
dies ?

happy (going to the stairs). Come up¬
stairs, Biff.

biff (with a flare of disgust, to Happy).
Go away from me! (To Linda) What do
you mean, lives or dies? Nobody’s dying
around here, pal.

linda. Get out of my sight! Get out of
here!

biff. I wanna see the boss.
linda. You’re not going near him!
biff. Where is he? (He moves into the
living-room and Linda follows)

linda (shouting after Biff). You invite
him for dinner. He looks forward to it all
day — (Biff appears in his parents’ bed¬
room, looks around, and exits) — and then
you desert him there. There’s no stranger
you’d do that to!

happy. Why? He had a swell time with
us. Listen, when I — (Linda comes back
into the kitchen) — desert him I hope I
don’t outlive the day!
linda. Get out of here!
happy. Now look, Mom . . .
linda. Did you have to go to women to¬
night? You and your lousy rotten whores!
(Biff re-enters the kitchen.)

happy. Mom, all we did was follow Biff
around trying to cheer him up! (To Biff)
Boy, what a night you gave me!

linda. Get out of here, both of you, and
don’t come back! I don’t want you tor¬
menting him any more. Go on now, get
your things together! (To Biff) You can
sleep in his apartment. (She starts to pick
up the flowers and stops herself) Pick up
this stuff, I’m not your maid any more.
Pick it up, you bum, you!

(Happy turns his back to her in refusal.
Biff slowly moves over and gets down on
his knees, picking up the flowers.)

linda. You’re a pair of animals! Not
one, not another living soul would have

had the cruelty to walk out on that man
in a restaurant!

biff (not looking at her). Is that what
he said?

linda. He didn’t have to say anything.
He was so humiliated he nearly limped
when he came in.

happy. But, Mom, he had a great time
with us —

biff (cutting him off violently). Shut
up!

(Without another word, Happy goes up¬
stairs.)

linda. You! You didn’t even go in to
see if he was all right!

biff (still on the floor in front of Linda,
the flowers in his hand; with self-loathing).
No. Didn’t. Didn’t do a damned thing.
How do you like that, heh? Left him bab¬
bling in a toilet.

linda. You louse. You . . .
biff. Now you hit it on the nose! (He
gets up, throws the flowers in the waste¬
basket) The scum of the earth, and you’re
looking at him!

linda. Get out of here!
biff. I gotta talk to the boss. Mom.
Where is he?

linda. You’re not going near him. Get
out of this house!

biff (with absolute assurance, determi¬
nation). No. We’re gonna have an abrupt
conversation, him and me.

linda. You’re not talking to him!
(Hammering is heard from outside the
house, off right. Biff turns toward the
noise.)

linda (suddenly pleading). Will you
please leave him alone?

biff. What’s he doing out there?
linda. He’s planting the garden!
biff (quietly). Now? Oh, my God!
(Biff moves outside, Linda following. The
light dies down on them and comes up on
the center of the apron as Willy walks into
it. He is carrying a flashlight, a hoe, and a
handful of seed packets. He raps the top of
the hoe sharply to fix it firmly, and then
moves to the left', measuring off the dis¬
tance with his foot. He holds the flashlight
to look at the seed packets, reading off the
instructions. He is in the blue of night.)

willy. Carrots . . . quarter-inch apart.
Rows . . . one-foot rows. (He measures it
off) One foot. (He puts down a package
and measures off) Beets. (He puts down
another package and measures again) Let¬

tuce. (He reads the package, puts it down)
One foot — (He breaks off as Ben appears
at the right and moves slowly down to-
him) What a proposition, ts, ts. Terrific,
terrific. ’Cause she’s suffered, Ben, the
woman has suffered. You understand me?
A man can’t go out the way he came in,
Ben, a man has got to add up to some¬
thing. You can’t, you can’t — (Ben moves
toward him as though to interrupt) You
gotta consider, now. Don’t answer so
quick. Remember, it’s a guaranteed twenty-
thousand-dollar proposition. Now look,
Ben, I want you to go through the ins
and outs of this thing with me. I’ve got
nobody to talk to, Ben, and the woman has
suffered, you hear me?

ben (standing still, considering ). What’s
the proposition?

willy. It’s twenty thousand dollars on
the barrelhead. Guaranteed, gilt-edged, you
understand?

ben. You don’t want to make a fool of
yourself. They might not honor the policy.

willy. How can they dare refuse?
Didn’t I work like a coolie to meet every
premium on the nose? And now they
don’t pay off? Impossible!

ben. It’s called a cowardly thing, Wil¬
liam.

willy. Why? Does it take more guts to
stand here the rest of my life ringing up a
zero?

ben (yielding). That’s a point, William.
(He moves, thinking, turns) And twenty
thousand — that is something one can feel
with the hand, it is there.

willy (now assured, with rising power).
Oh, Ben, that’s the whole beauty of it! I
see it like a diamond, shining in the dark,
hard and rough, that I can pick up and
touch in my hand. Not like — like an ap¬
pointment! This would not be another
damned-fool appointment, Ben, and it
changes all the aspects. Because he thinks
I’m nothing, see, and so he spites me. But
the funeral — (Straightening up) Ben, that
funeral will be massive! They’ll come from
Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New
Hampshire! All the old-timers with the
strange license plates — that boy will be
thunder-struck, Ben, because he never real¬
ized — I am known! Rhode Island, New
York, New Jersey — I am known, Ben, and
he’ll see it with his eyes once and for all.
He’ll see what I am, Ben! He’s in for a
shock, that boy!

ben ( coming down to the edge of the
garden). He’ll call you a coward.

willy ( suddenly fearful). No, that
would be terrible.

ben. Yes. And a damned fool.
willy. No, no, he mustn’t. I won’t have
that! (He is broken and desperate)
ben. He’ll hate you, William.

(The gay music of the Boys is heard.)

willy. Oh, Ben, how do we get back to
all the great times? Used to be so full of
light, and comradeship, the sleigh-riding
in winter, and the ruddiness on his cheeks.
And always some kind of good news com¬
ing up, always something nice coming up
ahead. And never even let me carry the
valises in the house, and simonizing, si-
monizing that little red car! Why, why
can’t I give him something and not have
him hate me?

ben. Let me think about it. (He glances
at his watch) I still have a little time. Re¬
markable proposition, but you’ve got to be
sure you’re not making a fool of yourself.
(Ben drifts off upstage and goes out of
sight. Biff comes down from the left.)

willy (suddenly conscious of Biff, turns
and looks up at him, then begins picking
up the packages of seeds in confusion).
Where the hell is that seed? (Indignantly)
You can’t see nothing out here! They
boxed in the whole goddam neighborhood!

biff. There are people all around here.
Don’t you realize that?

willy. I’m busy. Don’t bother me.
biff (taking the hoe from Willy). I’m
saying good-by to you, Pop. (Willy looks
at him, silent, unable to move) I’m not
coming back any more.

willy. You’re not going to see Oliver
tomorrow?

biff. I’ve got no appointment, Dad.
willy. He put his arm around you, and
you’ve got no appointment?

biff. Pop, get this now, will you? Every-
time I’ve left it’s been a fight that sent me
out of here. Today I realized something
about myself and I tried to explain it to
you and I — I think I’m just not smart
enough to make any sense out of it for
you. To hell with whose fault it is or any¬
thing like that. (He takes Willy’s arm)
Let’s just wrap it up, heh? Come on in,
we’ll tell Mom. (He gently tries to pull
Willy to left)

willy (frozen, immobile, with guilt in
his voice). No, I didn’t want to see her.

biff. Come on! (He pulls again, an<\
Willy tries to pull away)
willy (highly nervous). No, no, I don’t
want to see her.

biff (tries to look int0 Willy's face, as
if to find the answer there). Why don’t
you want to see her?

willy (more harshly now). Don’t both¬
er me, will you?

biff. What do you mean, you don’t
want to see her? You don’t want them
calling you yellow, do you? This isn’t your
fault; it’s me, I’m a bum. Now come in¬
side. (Willy strains to get away) Did you
hear what I said to you?

( Willy pulls away and quickly goes by
himself into the house. Biff follows.)
linda (to Willy). Did you plant, dear?
biff (at the door, to Linda). All right,
we had it out. I’m going and I’m not
writing any more.

linda (going to Willy in the tchen). I
think that’s the best way, dear. ’Cause
there’s no use drawing it out, you’ll just
never get along.

(Willy doesn’t respond.)

biff. People ask where I am and what
I’m doing, you don’t know, and you don’t
care. That way it’ll be off your mind and
you can start brightening up again. All
right? That clears it, doesn’t it? (Willy is
silent, and Biff goes to him) You gonna
wish me luck, scout? (He extends his
hand) What do you say?

linda. Shake his hand, Willy.
willy (turning to her, seething with
hurt). There’s no necessity to mention the
pen at all, y’know.

biff (gently). I’ve got no appointment,
Dad.

willy (erupting fiercely). He put his
arm around . . . ?

biff. Dad, you’re never going to see
what I am, so what’s the use of arguing?
If I strike oil I’ll send you a check. Mean¬
time, forget I’m alive.

willy (to Linda). Spite, see?
biff. Shake hands, Dad.
willy. Not my hand.
biff. I was hoping not to go this way.
willy. Well, this is the way you’re go¬
ing. Good-by.

(Biff looks at him a moment, then turns
sharply and goes to the stairs.)

willy (stops him with). May you rot in
hell if you leave this house!

biff (turning). Exactly what is it that
you want from me?

willy. I want you to know, on the
train, in the mountains, in the valleys,
wherever you go, that you cut down your
life for spite!
biff. No, no.

willy. Spite, spite, is the word of your
undoing! And when you’re down and out,
remember what did it. When you’re rot¬
ting somewhere beside the railroad tracks,
remember, and don’t you dare blame it on
me!

biff. I’m not blaming it on you!
willy. I won’t take the rap for this, you
hear?

(Happy comes down the stairs and stands
on the bottom step, watching.)

biff. That’s just what I’m telling you!
willy (sinking down into a chair at the
table, with full accusation). You’re trying
to put a knife in me — don’t think I don’t
know what you’re doing!

biff. All right, phony! Then let’s lay it
on the line. (He whips the rubber tube
out of his pocket and puts it on the table)
happy. You crazy —
linda. Biff! (She moves to grab the
hose, but Biff holds it down with his
hand)

biff. Leave it there! Don’t move it!
willy (not looking at it). What is that?
biff. You know goddam well what that
is.

willy (caged, wanting to escape). I
never saw that.

biff. You saw it. The mice didn’t bring
it into the cellar! What is this supposed to
do, make a hero out of you? This sup¬
posed to make me sorry for you?
willy. Never heard of it.
biff. There’ll be no pity for you, you
hear it? No pity!

willy (to Linda). You hear the spite!
biff. No, you’re going to hear the truth
— what you are and what I am!
linda. Stop it!
willy. Spite!

happy (coming down toward Biff). You
cut it now!

biff (to Happy). The man don’t know
who we are! The man is gonna know!
(To Willy) We never told the truth for
ten minutes in this house!

happy. We always told the truth!
biff (turning on him). You big blow,
are you the assistant buyer? You’re one of

the two assistants to the assistant, aren’t
you?

happy. Well, I’m practically —
biff. You’re practically full of it! We all
are! And I’m through with it! (To Willy)
Now hear this, Willy, this is me.
willy. I know you!

biff. You know why I had no address
for three months? I stole a suit in Kansas
City and I was in jail. (To Linda, who is
sobbing) Stop crying, I’m through with it.
(Linda turns away from them, her hands
covering her face.)

willy. I suppose that’s my fault!
biff. I stole myself out of every good job
since high school!

willy. And whose fault is that?
biff. And I never got anywhere because
you blew me so full of hot air I could
never stand taking orders from anybody!
That’s whose fault it is!
willy. I hear that!
linda. Don’t, Biff!

biff. It’s goddam time you heard that!

I had to be boss big shot in two weeks,
and I’m through with it!

willy. Then hang yourself! For spite,
hang yourself!

biff. No! Nobody’s hanging himself,
Willy! I ran down eleven flights with a
pen in my hand today. And suddenly I
stopped, you hear me? And in the middle
of that office building, do you hear this? I
stopped in the middle of that building and
I saw — the sky. I saw the things that I love
in this world. The work and the food and
time to sit and smoke. And I looked at the
pen and said to myself, what the hell am I
grabbing this for? Why am I trying to
become what I don’t want to be? What
am I doing in an office, making a con¬
temptuous, begging fool of myself, when
all I want is out there, waiting for me the
minute I say I know who I am! Why can’t
I say that, Willy? (He tries to make Willy
face him, but Willy pulls away and moves
to the left)

willy (with hatred, threateningly). The
door of your life is wide open!

biff. Pop, I’m a dime a dozen, and so
are you!

willy (turning on him now in an un¬
controlled outburst). I am not a dime a
dozen! I am Willy Loman, and you are
Biff Loman!

(Biff starts for Willy, but is blocked by

32

You gonna wish me luck, scout? What do you say ?

People ask where I am and what I m doing, you don t know, and you don t care

Happy. In his fury, Biff seems on the
verge of attaching his father.)

biff. I am not a leader of men, Willy,
and neither are you. You were never any¬
thing but a hard-working drummer who
landed in the ash can like all the rest of
them! I’m one dollar an hour, Willy! I
tried seven states and couldn’t raise it. A
buck an hour! Do you gather my mean¬
ing? I’m not bringing home any prizes
any more, and you’re going to stop waiting
for me to bring them home!

willy ( directly to Biff). You vengeful,
spiteful mutt!

( Biff'brea\s from Happy. Willy, in fright,
starts up the stairs. Biff grabs him.)

biff ( at the peak of his fury). Pop, I’m
nothing! I’m nothing, Pop. Can’t you un¬
derstand that? There’s no spite in it any
more. I’m just what I am, that’s all.

( Biff’s fury has spent itself, and he breads
down, sobbing, holding on to Willy, who
dumbly fumbles for Biff’s face.)

willy {astonished) . What’re you doing?

What’re you doing? (To Linda) Why is
he crying?

biff {crying, broken). Will you let me
go, for Christ’s sake? Will you take that
phony dream and burn it before something
happens? {Struggling to contain himself,
he pulls away and moves to the stairs) I’ll
go in the morning. Put him — put him to
bed. {Exhausted, Biff moves up the stairs
to his room)

willy {after a long pause, astonished,
elevated). Isn’t that— isn’t that remark¬
able? Biff — he likes me!

linda. He loves you, Willy.

happy {deeply moved). Always did,
Pop.

willy. Oh, Biff! {Staring wildly) He
cried! Cried to me. {He is choking with
his love, and now cries out his promise)
That boy— that boy is going to be mag¬
nificent!

{Ben appears in the light just outside the
kitchen.)

ben. Yes, outstanding, with twenty thou¬

sand behind him.

linda {sensing the racing of his mind,
fearfully, carefully). Now come to bed,
Willy. It’s all settled now.

willy {finding it difficult not to rush
out of the house). Yes, we’ll sleep. Come
on. Go to sleep, Hap.

ben. And it does take a great kind of a
man to crack the jungle.

(In accents of dread, Ben’s idyllic music
starts up.)

happy (his arm around Linda). I’m get¬
ting married, Pop, don’t forget it. I’m
changing everything. I’m gonna run that
department before the year is up. You’ll
see, Mom. (He fosses her)

ben. The jungle is dark but full of dia¬
monds, Willy.

(Willy turns, moves, listening to Ben.)

linda. Be good. You’re both good boys,
just act that way, that’s all.

happy. ’Night, Pop. (He goes upstairs)

linda (to Willy). Come, dear.

ben (with greater force). One must go

in to fetch a diamond out.

willy (to Linda, as he moves slowly
along the edge of the fotchen, toward the
door). I just want to get settled down,
Linda. Let me sit alone for a little.

linda (almost uttering her fear). I want
you upstairs.

willy (tafong her in his arms). In a
few minutes, Linda. I couldn’t sleep right
now. Go on, you look awful tired. (He
fosses her)

ben. Not like an appointment at all. A
diamond is rough and hard to the touch.
willy. Go on now. I’ll be right up.
linda. I think this is the only way,
Willy.

willy. Sure, it’s the best thing.
ben. Best thing!

willy. The only way. Everything is
gonna be — go on, kid, get to bed. You
look so tired.

linda. Come right up.
willy. Two minutes.

(Linda goes into the living-room, then re¬
appears in her bedroom. Willy moves just
outside the fotchen door.)

willy. Loves me. (W onderingly) Al¬
ways loved me. Isn’t that a remarkable
thing? Ben, he’ll worship me for it!

ben (with promise). It’s dark there, but
full of diamonds.

willy. Can you imagine that magnifi¬
cence with twenty thousand dollars in his
pocket?

linda (calling from her room). Willy!
Come up!

willy (calling into the fotchen). Yes!
Yes. Coming! It’s very smart, you realize
that, don’t you, sweetheart? Even Ben sees
it. I gotta go, baby. ’By! ’By! (Going over
to Ben, almost dancing) Imagine? When

the mail comes he’ll be ahead of Bernard
again!

ben. A perfect proposition all around.
willy. Did you see how he cried to me?
Oh, if I could kiss him, Ben!
ben. Time, William, time!
willy. Oh, Ben, I always knew one way
or another we were gonna make it, Biff
and I!

ben (loofong at his watch). The boat.
We’ll be late. (He moves slowly off into
the darkness)

willy (ele giacally , turning to the house).
Now when you kick off, boy, I want a
seventy-yard boot, and get right down the

33

field under the ball, and when you hit, hit
low and hit hard, because it’s important,
boy. (He swings around and faces the
audience) There’s all kinds of important
people in the stands, and the first thing
you know . . . (Suddenly realizing he is
alone) Ben, Ben, where do I ... ? (He
ma\es a sudden movement of search) Ben,
how do I . . .?

linda (calling). Willy, you coming up?

willy (uttering a gasp of fear, whirling
about as if to quiet her). Sh! (He turns
around as if to find his way; sounds, faces,
voices seem to be swarming in upon him
and he flicks at them, crying) Sh! Sh!
(Suddenly music, faint and high, stops
him. It rises in intensity, almost to an un¬
bearable scream. He goes up and down on
his toes, and rushes off around the house)
Shhh!

linda. Willy?

(There is no answer. Linda waits. Biff gets
up off his bed. He is still in his clothes.
Happy sits up. Biff stands listening.)

linda (with real fear). Willy, answer
me! Willy!

(There is the sound of a car starting and
moving away at full speed.)

linda. No!

biff (rushing down the stairs). Pop!

(As the car speeds off, the music crashes
down in a frenzy of sound, which becomes
the soft pulsation of a single cello string.
Biff slowly returns to his bedroom. He and
Happy gravely don _ their jackets. Linda
slowly wal\s out of her room. The music
has developed into a death march. The
leaves of day are appearing over every¬
thing. Charley and Bernard, somberly
dressed, appear and knock on kitc,len
door. Biff and Happy slowly descend the
stairs to the kitchen as Charley and Ber¬
nard enter. All stop a moment when Linda
in clothes of mourning, bearing a little
bunch of roses, comes through the draped
doorway into the kitchen. She goes to
Charley and takes his arm. Now all move
toward the audience, through the wall-line
of the kitchen. At the limit of the apron,
Linda lays down the flowers, kneels, and
sits back on her heels. All stare down at
the grave.)

REQUIEM

charley. It’s getting dark, Linda.

(Linda doesn’t react. She sta’res at the
grave.)

biff. How about it, Mom? Better get
some rest, heh? They’ll be closing the gate
soon.

(Linda makes no move. Pause.)

happy (deeply angered). He had no
right to do that. There was no necessity
for it. We would’ve helped him.
charley (grunting). Hmmm.
biff. Come along, Mom.
linda. Why didn’t anybody come?
charley. It was a very nice funeral.
linda. But where are all the people he
knew? Maybe they blame him.

charley. Naa. It’s a rough world, Linda.
They wouldn’t blame him.

linda. I can’t understand it. At this time
especially. First time in thirty-five years we
were just about free and clear. He only
needed a little salary. He was even finished
with the dentist.

charley. No man only needs a little sal¬
ary.

linda. I can’t understand it.
biff. There were a lot of nice days.
When he’d come home from a trip; or on
Sundays, making the stoop; finishing the
cellar; putting on the new porch; when he
built the extra bathroom; and put up the
garage. You know something, Charley,
there’s more of him in that front stoop
than in all the sales he ever made.

charley. Yeah, he was a happy man
with a batch of cement.

linda. He was so wonderful with his
hands.

biff. He had the wrong dreams. All, all.
wrong.

happy (almost ready to fight Biff).
Don’t say that!

biff. He never knew who he was*
CHARLEY (stopping Happy’s movement
and reply. To Biff). Nobody dast blame
this man. You don’t understand: Willy
was a salesman. And for a salesman, there
is no rock bottom to the life. He don’t put
a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law
or give you medicine. He’s the man way
out there in the blue riding on a smile and
a shoeshine. And when they start not smil¬
ing back — that’s an earthquake. And then
you get yourself a couple of spots on your
hat, and you’re finished. Nobody dast
blame this man. A salesman is got to
dream, boy. It comes with the territory.

biff. Charley, the man didn’t know who
he was.

happy (infuriated). Don’t say that!
biff. Why don’t you come with me,
Happy ?

happy. I’m not licked that easily. I’m
staying right in this city, and I’m gonna
beat this racket! (He looks at Biff, his chin
set) The Loman Brothers!
biff. I know who I am, kid.
happy. All right, boy. I’m gonna show
you and everybody else that Willy Loman
did not die in vain. He had a good dream.
It’s the only dream you can have — to come
out number-one man. He fought it out
here, and this is where I’m gonna win it
for him.

biff (with a hopeless glance at Happy,
bends toward his mother). Let’s go, Mom.

linda. I’ll be with you in a minute. Go
on, Charley. (He hesitates) I want to,
just for a minute. I never had a chance to
say good-by.

(Charley moves away, followed by Happy.
Biff remains a slight distance up and left
of Linda. She sits there, summoning her¬

self. The flute begins, not far away, play¬
ing behind her speech.)

linda. Forgive me, dear. I can’t cry. I
don’t know what it is, but I can’t cry. I
don’t understand it. Why did you ever do
that? Help me, Willy, I can’t cry. It seems
to me that you’re just on another trip. I
keep expecting you. Willy, dear, I can t
cry. Why did you do it? I search and
search and I search, and I can’t understand
it, Willy. I made the last payment on the
house today. Today, dear. And there’ll be
nobody home. (A sob rises in her throat)
We’re free and clear. (Sobbing more fully,
released) We’re free. (Biff comes slowly
toward her) We’re free . . . We re free . . .
(Biff lifts her to her feet and moves up
right with her in his arms. Linda sobs
quietly. Bernard and Charley come to¬
gether and follow them, followed by
Happy. Only the music of the flute is left
on the darkening stage as over the house
the hard towers of the apartment buildings
rise into sharp focus, and)

the curtain falls

34

Barbara Holdridge, Marianne Mantell,
producers, Caedmon Records.

Mrs. Holdridge and Mrs. Mantell are
pioneers in spoken-word recording.

Eva Le Gallienne,
Director, National
Repertory
Theatre. Miss
Le Gallienne is a
distinguished
actress, translator,
and leading
figure in
American
repertory theatre.

August Heckscher,
President, The
Twentieth
Century Fund.

Mr. Heckscher
was Consultant
on the Arts to the
late President
Kennedy.

Tyrone Guthrie,
Artistic Director,
Minnesota Theatre
Company.

Mr. Guthrie is
one of the world’s
foremost
directors.

John Gassner,
Sterling Professor
of Play writing
and Dramatic
Literature, Yale
School of Drama.
Mr. Gassner is
renowned as
theatre editor
and anthologist.

George Freedley,
Curator, Theatre
Collection,

New York Public
Library.

Mr. Freedley is a
leading theatre
commentator
and archivist.

0i/0/W • WdH ^

Arthur Miller

SAEESMA

Miller

death

iction: Arthur
Act I, T-’^rt 1

ed Dunnock

and Cast

directed bv
\u Grosbard

. 33i RPM

Arthur Miller

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

Act I, Part 2

Lee J. Cobb - Mildred Dunnock

and Cast
directed by

UIu Grosbard

^PRODUCTION RIGHTS

Mildre^

Arthur Miller
OF A SALESMAN
Act II, Pat' 3

[red Dunnock

and Cast
directed bv

Ulu Grosbard

. 33i RPM

Arthur Miller

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

Act II, concluded
Requiem

Lee J. Cobb - Mildred Dunnock

and Cast
directed by

Ulu Grosbard

^PRODUCTION RIGHTS